


The Muddy Princess

by Colubrina



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Adopted Hermione, F/M, Hermione Nott - Freeform, pureblood hermione
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:38:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 60,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23635201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colubrina/pseuds/Colubrina
Summary: Just another Pureblood!Hermione story. A hidden adoption revealed, a brother found, a new world to figure out: "What are you hoping for?" he asked as they stood ready to do the spell. "I don't know," Hermione admitted. "You?" His knuckles were white on his wand. "A sister," he said, his voice very low, "I'm hoping for a sister."
Relationships: Ginny Weasley/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lavender Brown/Ron Weasley, Luna Lovegood/Theodore Nott
Comments: 340
Kudos: 702
Collections: Harry Potter completed chapter fics, Top Tier Harry Potter Fiction





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on FFN in 2015.

“Adopted?”Hermione Granger stared at her parents’ solicitor in disbelief.“I’m adopted?But no one ever –“

“The original adoption agreement specified secrecy until you turned eighteen.”The solicitor made the hint of an unprofessional face.“As I recall, your birth parents had wanted the records sealed forever, but we argued that wouldn’t be fair to you.”

“I’ve been over eighteen for a while,” Hermione said.“Why am I just hearing about this now?”

This was not what she’d expected when she’d been asked to make an appointment to speak to the man.Her parents – her adoptive parents, apparently – weren’t coming back from Australia.She had managed to erase all their knowledge of her and to give them new identities, but there was no return from how thoroughly she’d wiped their minds and so she’d had them declared dead and prepared to settle what was left of their estates.

She’d assumed this meeting would be about that. Sign this bank form, release these financial records, your parents wanted this bit of sentimental property to go to that relative.

Not, oh, by the way, you were adopted.

She took the file as the man-made some stumbling explanation of how they hadn’t been able to find her to let her know about this when the records had been legally available to her because of course, they hadn’t been able to find her.She’d been shielded from Dark wizards, in a tent, and on the run.She wouldn’t have been very thoroughly hidden if a Muggle solicitor had been able to ring her up anytime. 

She opened the folder and flipped through it, not expecting to see anything other than the predictable story of a scared teenage girl giving a mistake away.

She blinked when she saw the name in the folder and looked up at the solicitor.“Are you sure this is right?” she asked.

He looked offended.

. . . . . . . . . . 

“Adopted?”Ginny waved the waitress over and ordered another round.“Really?And you just found out now?I don’t want to be rude, Hermione, but Muggles are weird.”

“Oh?”Hermione asked, downing another shot.“Because there’s no adoption in the Wizarding world?”

“Not really,” Ginny said.“Not that I’ve ever heard of, anyway.”

“Well, you’ve heard of it now,” Hermione said.

“Well, yeah, I mean you’re a witch, but it’s still a Muggle thing.”

Hermione snorted and pulled the folder out of her bag and handed it to Ginny.The girl read it once, then again.“Are you shitting me?” she finally asked.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione sent off an owl the next morning.Just found out, she wrote, along with understand if you don’t want to have further contact and won’t be offended, just thought you should know.

Her brother didn’t write back; he just showed up at her flat, and she opened the door to look into the dark blue eyes of Theodore Nott.

She’d have expected him to look angry or resentful, but he just strolled into her flat without so much as a ‘by your leave’ and threw himself down on her couch.“We need to do a paternity test,” was the first thing he said and she nodded and began talking about making an appointment to have blood drawn and tests run, and he cut her off.“Muggle,” he said dismissively. “We can just do a charm.” 

He tossed her a book, one page dog-eared, and she read through the charm.All they had to do was cast it.White light between them would indicate full siblings.A colored glow meant varying degrees of consanguinity, all of which the book laid out in a tidy chart.No light meant no relationship.

“What are you hoping for?” he asked as they stood ready to do the spell.

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “You?”

His knuckles were white on his wand.“A sister,” he said, his voice very low, “I’m hoping for a sister.”

He got one.

The ball of white light hovered between them after they cast the charm.“Let’s do it again,” Hermione said so they did and then a third time and then he pulled out a bottle of firewhiskey.

“I came prepared to celebrate,” he said. “Just in case it was true.But I didn’t bring glasses, so I hope you have some.”

They ordered takeaway and began to drink and to talk. 

He talked about their parents.They’d been married almost immediately after giving Hermione up, they’d conceived again right away, how in love everyone had said they were in that May/December romance, but also how their mother had died young, so young Theo didn’t remember her at all, and how that had driven their father into himself. “He wasn’t abusive or anything,” Theo hastened to reassure Hermione, “just… distant.”

He was in Azkaban now.

Theo shoved up the sleeve of his shirt and showed her his bare forearm.“I’m not one,” he said.“Raised to it, sure enough, but that bastard died before anyone could Mark me.”

She told him about her family, about summer vacations and ballet lessons and how excited her parents had been when she’d been found to be a witch, and he watched her talk with a growing air of melancholy until she stopped and asked what was wrong.“You got the better end of the deal, I think,” he said, the lonely child of a taciturn, withdrawn zealot.“I always wanted… not that it matters.”

She reached out and took his hand, and he let a smile chase away the memories. “Hermione Granger as my older sister, who would have thought it.”

“Barely older,” she protested.“Almost twins.”

“If we’d been twins maybe they would have kept up both,” he said, face grim again, “not tried to hide their little pre-marital mistake in a Muggle home where no one would find her.”His grim expression turned into more of a scowl. “They had to know what would happen, that you’d be a witch, go to Hogwarts, be harassed for being a Mud…Muggle-born.”

“It was what it was,” she said.

“It was a shitty thing to do to you,” Theo said. “If I’d known,” he added, guilt in his tone, “school would have been very different for you.You wouldn’t have had to put up with… stuff.”

“I did okay,” Hermione said.“Though maybe now I know why the Sorting Hat seemed so amused by me.”

“Fucking hat,” Theo said, “Should have put you in Slytherin.Notts always get Sorted into Slytherin.”

“Oh, come on,” Hermione said.“That would have been hell.Utter hell.No thank you, I like life just fine without having to constantly deal with people who care quite that much about blood status.”

Theodore Nott looked at his newfound sister and began to laugh. “Oh, Hermione, I have some really bad news for you.”

. . . . . . . . . .

They decided to meet for lunch once each week and slowly figure one another out.Hermione was braced against being asked to move to Nott Manor, but Theo admitted that not only had the Ministry confiscated the family home as part of war reparations, he was just as glad to see it go.“Ghosts, drafts, dark artifacts lying all over the place. It’s one nasty trap after another.No thanks.Let the Ministry sort out all the crap.”

“Are you…?”she wasn’t sure how to ask if he needed money.

“Poor?” Theo asked and had to sit down on a bench in the park they were strolling through he was laughing so hard.Finally, he said, “No, Hermione. I’m not poor.And neither are you.Richer than Croesus, both of us, even without that ancient heap.”

“It’s not mine,” she objected but he rolled his eyes.There were things, Hermione had already learned,it wasn’t worth trying to argue about.She’d just not take any of the Nott money, and he could go on insisting it was half hers and they’d both be happy. 

Her various rights and privileges as a pureblood aristocrat were something he wanted her to take on and something she continued to insist were nonsense.“I’m your bastard sister and nothing else,” she’d said the first time he’d brought it up, and he’d looked at her mulishly set expression and shrugged.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Do-you-want-to-come-to-dinner-at-the-Burrow?” Hermione got the words out in a rush and Theo stared at her over the fish and chips he’d been eating at their weekly lunch.“The Weasleys,” she said in explanation. “They want to meet you.And Harry.”

“Your blood-traitor wizarding friends want to meet me?” he asked and flushed when her eyes narrowed at the epithet. 

“Don’t call them that,” she said and he made one of those apologetic shrugs.“They’re very nice,” she said, getting worked up now, “and they know I was adopted, and they know about you, and they want to meet you and you and bloody well – “

He held up a hand to stop her flow of outrage.

“Done,” he said.

She wilted a bit, all the reasons and arguments she’d prepared suddenly worthless in the face of his easy acquiescence.

“Under one condition,” he added.

“What?”

“You have to agree to meet my friends too.”

Hermione lowered her fork and regarded her brother across the table. “Which friends would those be?” she asked warily.

“Draco and Blaise,” Theo said.

“No,” Hermione said, frozen in her seat.“Absolutely not.”

Theo shrugged.“Then I guess I won’t be meeting your little surrogate family.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, and he smirked at her, and she could feel herself begin to crumble even as she braced her spine even more fiercely than before.“The Weasleys have never done anything to you, not one thing, and they’re ready to open up their home and their hearts to you just because we happen to turn out to have had the same parents and you’re going to spit at that because I don’t want to socialize with Draco-sodding-Malfoy.”

She started to cry at the last bit of her tirade and wiped at the tears with a short, bitter gesture.Why did she always have to cry when she was upset like this, she thought.Why couldn’t she just be coherent and controlled and calm?“Excuse me,” she muttered and rose to escape to the loo to splash some water on her face and get hold of herself.

She hadn’t taken two steps when Theo had his arms around her and, money tossed onto the table, was pulling her out of the pub to the relative privacy of a bench at a fountain across the street.“I know Draco can be a bit of a prat,” he said, and she looked up from the shirt she’d been busy sniveling against in disbelief.

“A bit of a prat?He called me Mudblood for seven years,” she said. “He stood there in his house and watched his aunt torture me.”She grabbed the handkerchief Theo held out and wiped at her eyes and added, “To be fair, he didn’t have a choice about that bit. But he did about the schoolyard bullying.”

“I can guarantee you he won’t call you Mudblood anymore,” Theo said.

“I’m supposed to feel better that the prejudiced arse isn’t actually prejudiced in my general direction anymore?” she asked. “I’m supposed to take tea with him and let him say, ‘Hey, sorry I called you vile names and thought you were scum.My mistake, turns out you’re one of the elect after all. Of course, they’re all still scum.’”

“I called you vile names too,” Theo said quietly.“And you’ve forgiven me.”

She hiccupped into the handkerchief. 

“Hermione,” Theo looked down at his feet as he talked.“I never even knew a Muggle-born, not one.You know what our father was like; he thought killing what he considered the lesser orders was reasonable and right and… how could I have grown up in that house and not been prejudiced?You aren’t being fair.”

“You’ve changed,” she muttered. 

He did that shrug thing and still didn’t look at her.“Because I had to see you as a person once you were my sister, yes.Because I’m smart enough and honest enough to admit that if you’re clever and funny and worth my time as a pureblood sister, you were also all those things when you were Potter’s Mudblood.”

“If this is the way you plan to convince me to visit with Malfoy – “

“But you haven’t given him that chance,”Theo persisted, and they sat there in silence as she refused to admit he had a point. At long last, he added, “And they’re all I have other than you.Our mother’s dead, our father’s in Azkaban, and the world will freeze before I go out with Greg Goyle and endure his idiocy on purpose.”

“Pansy Parkinson?”Hermione teased through another hiccup.

Theo shuddered. “That’s just cruel,” he said. 

Then, “Please, Hermione.For me.Give my friends a chance.”

“And you’ll come to the Burrow?” she asked him.

“Whether you come see Blaise and Draco or not,” Theo promised.

“You’re a manipulative bastard, you know that?” Hermione asked her brother, and he smirked at her because he knew he’d won.


	2. Chapter 2

When Theodore Nott found out Hermione Granger was his sister, his first response was complete and utter fury.

_Lied to._

His whole life he’d been lied to.

Family is the most important thing, his father would say. It was the story, the veritable myth, of their lives. Family was sacred, his mother had died, and they had to protect the wonderful memory of the perfection of their little circle.

He’d believed it.

He still believed it.

It was why when he got Hermione’s owl he didn’t waste time dithering about wondering what to do; he just confirmed she was his sister and got on with things. If she was his sister, she was family, and if she was family, she was valuable, and that was the end of that. Full stop. No questions.

Plus, he’d always wanted a sibling.

He thought about her happy childhood spent with people who loved her, who took her to museums and bought her ice creams and lived life instead of dreaming about their dead loves, and he was envious. He thought about her showing up at Hogwarts excited because she was a witch and discovering she might be a witch, but she was, at best, a third-class citizen and he got angry.

His father had done this. His father and his mother, the woman who’d been on a pedestal his whole life, had done this. They’d thrown away his sister rather than face the shame of a failed contraceptive charm. They’d condemned _family_ to being a perpetual outsider. Her blood status could have gotten her killed – bloody near had – and even though his father couldn’t have known the sodding Dark Lord would rise from the bleeding dead that didn’t make turning his sister into a Mudblood okay.

He remembered Draco sneering at her. 

He remembered himself sneering at her.

He noted that shame was not the most comfortable of emotions.

Merlin, they’d all sneered. Hogwarts had plenty of Muggle-borns, but only one was Harry Potter’s best friend, and that was the one Draco had a hard-on for hating. She was too bold, too pushy. She didn’t know her place. No one wanted to hear her voice. On and on and on.

“She’s just a worthless Mudblood,” Theo remembered saying. “Give it a rest, already. Merlin, if I didn’t know you’d never touch filth like that, I’d think you had a crush on her what with the way you never shut up about her.”

Shame.

As he spent time with her, learned to know the sister he should have never lost, that shame grew. She was smart. She was funny. She was an absolute lightweight, and whenever he got her drinking, he pulled another story out of her about how devious she’d been in school. That she cheated to get that Ronald Weasley a place on the Quidditch team amused him. That she’d brewed Polyjuice Potion so her little friends could sneak into the Slytherin common room and interrogate Draco made him laugh until he thought he might throw up. That she’d kept Rita Skeeter, trapped in Animagus form, in a jar scared him.

She was far far more ruthless than any Slytherin he’d grown up with, and he’d never known, had always assumed she was just Potter’s swotty, goody-goody friend.

He’d been so very wrong.

Whether she accepted the honor or not – and so far she most certainly did not – she was a perfect and fitting aristocratic heir of the House of Nott. He was proud of her: proud she’d used all her wits and her cunning to help her best friend bring down a madman, proud she’d stood up to that insane harpy Bellatrix Lestrange, proud she’d faced all the sneers of school children with a lifted chin and braced shoulders. She was loyal. She was brave. She was brilliant and fierce and wonderful.

She’d been all those things when he’d thought she was a Mudblood.

That made him an arsehole because he hadn’t noticed; all he’d ever seen was her blood status.

. . . . . . . . . .

He told Draco and Blaise at the same time, dreading their responses. “I have a sister,” he said over a pint. “Put up for adoption before my parents were married.”

“You’re sure she’s not just some adventuress after your vaults?” Draco asked, slouched down in his seat wearing long sleeves despite an afternoon so hot their glasses were sweating endless rivers of condensation. 

“Won’t take a bloody sickle,” Theo grouched, “and, besides, the paternity charm checked out. We did it three times to be sure.”

“Anyone we know?” Blaise asked.

“She was in our year,” Theo said, trying to ease into the revelation.

“Merlin, I hope it isn’t anyone I shagged,” Blaise said, looking horrified. “Shite. A pureblood bloody Nott and I might have – “

“Trust me,” Theo said, blanching at the very idea, “you didn’t shag her.”

“Are you sure,” Blaise worried at the edge of his coaster with a fingernail. “I slept with a lot of girls, Theo. Mostly Hufflepuffs, to be sure, but –“

“But not, I suspect, Hermione Granger.”

Draco dropped his drink when he heard the name. The pint glass shattered on the floor, and the beer splashed over their legs and feet. They all swore and pushed away from the mess and Draco muttered an apology as he pulled out his wand to clean up the disaster.

“I’ve got it,” the waitress said, giving him a tired glare as she brought him a fresh pint. 

“You’re a love,” he said to her, turning on the charm he could haul out when he cared, and she smiled under the force of that attention. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” she said, blushing and preening as Theo and Blaise exchanged eye rolls while she cleaned up the spilled ale and broken glass with a few well-practiced spells.

Once the waitress had simpered at Draco a few more times before taking herself off, the blond man looked at Theo and said, “Hermione Granger is your sister?”

“A bastard, technically,” Theo said, watching Draco’s reaction, “but, yes, she’s my full sister. I’ve already taken steps to have her added to the family tree and declared legitimate.”

Blaise laughed as Draco’s fingers twitched around his new glass. “You plan to drop that one too? The waitress might think you’re trying to get her attention if you keep making her come over here to clean up after you.”

“I don’t date half-bloods,” Draco said dismissively, and Theo felt himself cringe as he heard his own attitudes echoed back at him.

“You don’t date anyone,” Blaise corrected and, at Draco’s twitch, he laughed. “You miss out, mate. The half-bloods are the ones who are more than happy to spread their tight thighs for aristocrats like you and me. They don’t think every present is leading up to an engagement ring and they don’t make you meet their parents. Half-bloods are where it’s at; you need to stop being so particular and live a little.”

“Fuck, Blaise. You’re such an arsehole,” Theo said, caught between admiration and disgust. “Do the women you use have any idea what a total prick you are?”

“Of course not but, hell, I wouldn’t treat your sister that way,” Blaise protested, almost scandalized at the idea. “She’s different. She’s not just a pureblood, mate. She’s… she’s _Sacred Twenty-Eight_. That’s…. she’s a princess, for Merlin’s sake. The rules are different.”

“A princess who needs a prince,” Draco said, taking a swallow from his pint. 

“You better not be thinking what I think you’re thinking,” Theo said, narrowing his eyes. “You hated Granger, hated her for years. You can’t just… she’s the same person except now she’s also my _sister_, Draco; she’s not some conquest you get to make. Keep your hands off her.”

Draco looked over at his friend. “She’s a pureblood now.”

Theo forced his tightening shoulders to relax. These were his friends and, as much as he had the urge to break Draco’s arrogant nose for even thinking about Hermione that way, within the boundaries of their world, the man was being totally appropriate.

Besides, he had a feeling Hermione would have a few things to say to Draco’s sudden reappraisal of her worth. If he’d learned one thing about his sister, it was that she was more than capable of taking care of herself.

. . . . . . . . . .

“You’re an arrogant, prejudiced arse.”

Hermione Granger had opinions about Draco Malfoy’s transformation from bullying schoolboy to a would-be suitor and, Theo noted with some amusement, she had no hesitation in sharing them.

Theo had had Hermione come over to his flat ahead of his friends and had gotten half a glass of wine into her in hopes that would soothe her obvious nerves in re-meeting her schoolyard bully as an adult. The wine had done more than calm her nerves; it had erased whatever inhibitions she had about speaking her mind.

Not, Theo admitted that she had a lot of inhibitions in that arena anyway.

Blaise had greeted her with a terse, “Granger. Nott. Granger. Whatever. You’re looking well,” and she’d smiled somewhat tightly at him and asked how life had been since Hogwarts.

That had been fine.

Draco, however, had come in all smooth smiles and heavy charm and had taken her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

Theo had expected her to punch him on the spot.

“What the fuck are you doing, Malfoy?” she’d asked instead.

“Greeting a beautiful woman,” he’d said, and Hermione had turned to look at Theo with an ‘are you kidding me?’ expression.

Theo had leaned back against his counter and gotten ready for the fireworks.

She was good. He admired the way he could see her decide to mess with the man as she turned back around and simpered at him. She let him fawn on her and fetch her things and trace his fingers across her hand. Then she said, “Did Theo tell you the adoption papers turned out to be false? We aren’t actually brother and sister though by now we’re such good friends we don’t plan –“

That was as far as she got before Draco yanked his hand off her wrist and recoiled across the couch.

That was when she started to curse him. Prejudiced. Arrogant. Manipulative. Hermione Granger had an extensive vocabulary, and she didn’t restrain herself. 

“Did you think I’d fall for that heavy-handed chivalry?” she demanded as Blaise laughed at Draco with Theo. “Did you really think I was so bloody stupid it wouldn’t occur to me to wonder why you’d suddenly completely changed your opinion of me? Now that I’m a pureblood princess I’m good enough for you to bat your pretty eyes at? Fuck off.”

Blaise, glass of wine in hand, called over to her, “Don’t suppose you’d date me instead?”

“No!” she glared at him.

“Can’t blame me for trying,” he smirked. “At least you know my intentions are dishonorable. Take you out, spend some galleons, hope to get laid. I’m a simple man.”

At that she laughed and, though Theo hit Blaise in the arm hard enough to leave a bruise, he was glad that at least one of his friends wasn’t being a total idiot.

Draco, the friend who was being an idiot, seemed mostly confused. “Things are different if you’re a Nott,” he said to Hermione, trying to make her understand now that she’d stopped berating him in order to catch her breath and drink more of her wine. “You’re a pureblood. You’re different.”

She gave him a look of utter disgust.

“I’m not,” was all she said.

“You are,” he insisted.

She set down her glass, pushed her sleeve up until she’d fully exposed the ‘mudblood’ scar, and held it out towards him. “This is what I am, Draco Malfoy. This is what you taught me I was. You taught me what that word meant, and I will always _always_ be a Mudblood no matter who my birth parents were, so, unless you can bear the thought of a filthy little Mudblood sullying your oh-so-perfect self, keep your fucking hands and your pathetic flirtation away from me.” She exhaled and looked at him. “Do you understand?”

Based on the way Draco paled, Theo suspected he did.


	3. Chapter 3

How much she liked Blaise surprised Hermione. He was a lech and, she suspected, just as prejudiced as Draco Malfoy, but he was cheerfully open and funny about it, and somehow that kept it from bothering her.

“This isn’t a date,” he said the first time they got together. He was sprinkling nutmeg over some coffee concoction that he’d had to repeat to the girl behind the counter three times while Hermione waited to find a table, her black tea in hand.

She bristled a little at his qualification of their coffee outing. “You don’t want to date a filthy Mudblood?” she asked.

Blaise turned to her. “Why do they never have cloves here? Is it that much to ask?”

“Not responding to the – “

“Don’t be stupid.” He walked over to the counter and flirted with the salesgirl until she pulled a small container out from someplace she had it stashed and he added it to what could, by this point, only be called coffee as a courtesy. “You aren’t a... fuck, I don’t even want to say the word.” 

He waved her over towards a seat and sighed. “You do realize that, as clumsy and offensive as Draco was, he was right. Things are different now.”

“I am the same – “

“It astonishes me you got so many O.W.L.s when you don’t listen at all.” Blaise leaned forward and said, “_Things_ are different now. You’re the same pushy wench with the same bad hair, yes, but you just changed your social class rather dramatically, and the rules are different so, just to be clear, this is not a date.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, because I don’t feel like marrying you,” Blaise drawled, tricking a laugh out of her. “In case it needed spelling out, I don’t do ‘honorable intentions’ and I don’t really want your pureblood brother to show up at my flat with a wand drawn telling me to do the right thing by you, which, if this were a date and you mistakenly thought that meant I was going to pop on over with a proposal and some expensive jewelry, he’d have every right to do.”

“So this is….”

“Not a date. Exactly.” Blaise smiled at her.

“Do you have any idea how much you look like a cat who’s gotten into the cream?”

“I’ve been told it’s a very appealing expression, especially when said cream is all over my face.”

She laughed again. “Tell me why I like you so much when you have no redeeming qualities at all?”

“Because I’m charming; it’s my fatal, tragic flaw.” Blaise Zabini sipped from his drink and licked a little foam off his top lip in a seductive gesture so practiced Hermione suspected it had become unconscious. 

“Can I ask you a question?” she said.

“Mmm?”

“Why would you think Theo would show up at your flat with some archaic demand you marry me just because we went on a date? Which this is not, of course, even though you paid for my tea.”

Blaise leaned back in his chair and made a face. “That tea. How can you drink that? Next time you have to let me order for you. Your lack of familiarity with coffee shouldn’t keep you from enjoying something more than you can possibly enjoy _that._” He made a dramatic shudder and pointed at her cup.

“Seriously, Blaise. I don’t need Theo to take care of me.” Hermione pulled her cup closer to her as if she could protect her black tea from his scorn.

“Maybe he needs to take care of you.” Blaise set aside his shallow, frivolous mask for a moment and leaned forward towards her. “Look, I don’t know how much Theo has told you about your father or his childhood but let me give you a taste of it. When we were fifteen and had managed to get ourselves really drunk in the dorms we decided to play, ‘what do you want most.’ Idiots that we were we even cast a bloody charm to require the truth. I won’t tell you what Greg Goyle wanted other than to say don’t ever be alone with him.”

“Good to know,” Hermione muttered.

“Draco, poor bastard, wanted to make his father proud, even just one time. Theo wanted a brother or sister, someone he could love without it being a chore, someone to keep him from being so damn alone, someone to take care of. If you like him at all, let him take care of you, at least a little. Fake it, if you have to.”

She kept her eyes on him. “What did you want?”

Mask back in place, Blaise shook his head. “Please. I’ll tell you other people’s deepest, darkest secrets but I’ll keep my own, thank you.” The mask slipped just a little again as he muttered, “If we’d played it a year later, we all would have wanted the same thing anyway.”

She gave him an inquiring look.

“For that bastard to just bloody well die,” Blaise said, voice low and almost embarrassed. “We weren’t heroes, far from it, but we weren’t stupid either.”

Hermione nodded and sipped her tea.

“Honestly, how can you even drink that?” Blaise made one of his dramatic faces. “You are one of the elite now, Hermione Granger, and I must – simply must – teach you about the finer things in life. Coffee and chocolate and, good Lord, do you even know which are the good brands of firewhiskey?”

“There’re brands?” she asked and grinned as he clutched at his chest.

“You are going to give me a heart attack right here in this coffee shop. You are an evil, _evil_ woman.” He smirked at her. “Obviously a pureblood. We specialize in evil, you know.”

“You specialize in being utter prats,” she said.

Blaise laughed. “True enough, though that’s mostly just Draco. Don’t judge Theo and me by his clumsy bullshite.”

“You’re telling me you _don’t_ have a bias against Muggle-borns?”

Blaise took a long drink and seemed to consider the question. “I don’t know a lot of Muggle-borns,” he said at last. “Most of my friends were in Slytherin and the women I, well, I’ll use the word ‘date,’ tend to be half-bloods.”

“Why?”

“Because there’re more of them,” he said. “Because they know enough about our world to be impressed by who I am, something Muggle-borns aren’t.” He gave her a rather winning smile. “I mean, you’re certainly not impressed by me at all.”

“You’re a total pig,” Hermione said.

“But I’m a charming total pig,” Blaise said. “And I’m an honest total pig. And I’m a total pig who doesn’t get any complaints, if you know what I mean.”

She laughed again as he gave her an exaggerated leer.

It was the strangest friendship ever, perhaps, but she had to admit Blaise was easy to be around. He seemed to find her as relaxing as she found him. “You don’t want anything,” he admitted once, “and you’re off-limits and not interested anyway so I can enjoy flirting outrageously without being afraid you’ll take it seriously.” More, for all that he was openly an absolute tosser about women, she began to run into his former flings when they were out, and they all clearly adored him still.

“I told you,” he said smugly after yet another woman hugged him. “I don’t get any complaints.”

“You use all of these women for sex, and none of them mind?”

“I’m a simple man with simple needs.”

“Liar,” she said. “I’ve seen you order coffee. You’re a snob with ridiculously complicated needs.”

“I’m a snob who’s smart enough to date women who don’t want anything long term either,” he said.

“You use this word ‘date,’” Hermione said.

“It’s politer than the alternative,” Blaise grinned at her, and she sighed.

. . . . . . . . . .

“You spend all your time hanging out with the snakes now,” Ron said.

“With my brother,” Hermione said with a glare and Ron backed down as Molly set out a plate of cookies. 

“I thought I was your brother,” Ron muttered as he took a cookie.

“You’re _like_ my brother,” Hermione said, thanking Molly. “Theo actually is. And Blaise is… fun. Lecherous and kind of awful, but fun.”

“You gonna go all pureblood and snotty on us now?” George teased, snagging a cookie.

“Says the pureblood,” Hermione snorted. “Be nice when he comes to dinner. He’s not used to a big family; I’m afraid you’ll all scare him.”

“If he’s _your_ brother that means he’s _our_ brother,” George said. “And that leaves nice right out.”

“We’ll be nice,” Ginny promised, hitting George on the arm. “At least the first time he’s here. After that, he’s fair game.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione expected dinner to be a little tense.

She knew Theo had spent his life dismissing the Weasleys as poor, as blood traitors, as having too many children who showed up at school with hand-me-down robes and used textbooks.

Not to mention he’d been on the other side of a war.

He’d sneered at them for fairly petty reasons; they had every right to despise him for some good ones. She was just hoping that Molly Weasley’s tendency to take in and love every stray that came her way would extend to Theo who, wealthy and privileged or not, seemed very much like a lost puppy to her.

Of course, if she compared it to the bona fide disaster of re-meeting Draco Malfoy as an adult, it probably wouldn’t be that bad. Theo had been trying to convince her to give the man another chance. “He’s an idiot,” Theo had admitted, “but he’s the closest thing I have to a brother, so he’s sort of my idiot.” She wasn’t keen on the idea of seeing Malfoy again, but Theo was being pushy about it, and she’d probably give in eventually. 

When Theo got to the Weasley home, flowers for Mrs. Weasley in one hand and a bottle of good wine in the other, the door was flung open, and Hermione watched him get bustled into the large, comfortable living room, the bouquet plucked from one hand with a happy exclamation and the wine handed off to someone with loud instructions to open it up and pour it 'round.

He already looked overwhelmed.

With an innocent smile that wouldn’t have fooled a child of five, Ginny handed Teddy Lupin over to Theo and said, “Hold him, would you? My arms are tired.” Theo gave Hermione a desperate ‘help me’ look but tried to contain the squirming toddler, finally hitting on the classic ‘peek-a-boo’ as a mostly successful strategy.

“He’s cute,” Ginny said, pulling Hermione over to the corner.

“He’s my brother,” Hermione said, making a face.

“He’s not mine,” Ginny said, adding at Hermione’s shocked look, “Hey, I’m just window shopping. A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”

“You want pretty, you need to meet Blaise,” Hermione muttered.

“Zabini?” Ginny asked.

“That’s the one. I think he’s the most frivolous person I’ve ever met, but I have to admit it does not hurt to look at him.”

They watched George settle next to Theo and begin talking to him and, after a few minutes, Hermione said, “I need to go rescue him.”

She shooed George away with a “Leave the man alone, George. It’s hardly his fault his father unloaded me.” Theo sagged with relief. 

“You’re a rotten sister,” he hissed under the din of the room. “Leaving me with a baby and a man who told me that you already had a houseful of brothers and I needed to watch my step. What does he think I’m going to do to you?”

“Sell me off to the highest pureblood bidder, probably,” Hermione admitted taking Teddy and passing him over to Percy. “Come help me in the kitchen. It’ll be quieter.”

When they reached the kitchen, Molly cheerfully put them to work while keeping a running patter going about Ron’s work at the Ministry and how she was fairly sure he’d propose to Lavender any day now, and she was hoping for a double wedding with Percy and Penelope at the same time and did Theo like weddings?

“I suppose,” he said. 

“Do you have a serious girlfriend,” Molly pushed, and Theo shook his head.

“I’ve kept to myself since the war,” he said so quietly his words were almost lost under an explosion from the other room followed by loud shrieks blaming George for something. “My father… it’s not an easy thing to explain to people that you have a father in Azkaban.”

Molly placed a hand on his shoulder, but all she said was, “You need a haircut. Hermione, take this brother of yours to get a haircut one of these days.” Then she shoved plates into their hands and ordered them to go put the food on the table.

Hermione sat next to Theo, and Harry took the other side. She glanced around at her long-time best friend, and he mouthed, “Love you, Hermione,” at her, and she smiled. Theo picked up a wine bottle and filled her glass, then his own, then reached across the table to fill Ginny’s as well, before passing the bottle to Harry.

“Tell me about yourself,” Molly Weasley ordered Theo before adding, “Ron, it’s your turn to hold the baby.” 

“There’s not much to tell,” Theo demurred. “My mother died when I was young, my father was a Death Eater. I’m not. That’s about it.”

“How’d you like finding out you had a sister who was a Muggle-born?” Ron asked with a look on his face Theo would have called a sneer if he’d seen it on Draco’s.

“I’ve always wanted a brother or sister,” Theo said, passing the potatoes down the table and taking a plate of beets from Harry, “so, naturally, I was thrilled.” He paused and added a confession that shocked him in its raw honesty. “The day I got that owl was the best day of my life.”

“You must have been very lonely as a child,” Mrs. Weasley said and, recognizing an ally, Theo nodded. 

Ron slopped a pile of potatoes onto his plate with an unnecessarily vehement shake of the serving spoon as he balanced the toddler on his lap. 

“My father – our father – wasn’t exactly demonstrative,” Theo said. “Lots of expensive presents and reminders of the importance of duty and not a lot of family dinners.” He smiled at Mrs. Weasley. “I think this may be the first time I’ve ever done anything quite like this.”

“Expensive presents sounds nice,” Ron Weasley said almost under his breath.

Theo eyed him. “I would have preferred a sister.”

“Even a Muggle-born?” Ron Weasley said, not willing to let it go.

“Yes,” Theo tried not to snap his response, wondering why Hermione liked this man. “Even a Muggle-born. Even a Muggle. Even a Squib. She’s my _sister_. I don’t give a rat’s –.“ He glanced apologetically at Mrs. Weasley and corrected himself, “I don’t care who raised her. _She’s my sister_. And, while I wish we’d grown up together, she probably got the better end of that deal.”

Harry Potter chimed in. “Are you really telling us you think it would be better to be raised by Muggles than by one of you pureblooded Sacred Twenty-Eight types?”

“Maybe not by your Muggles,” Theo conceded, not able to resist a slight twist of the knife. Rumors about the way Potter had grown up had been thick on the ground at Hogwarts. “But, Merlin, man, you don’t really think my father was a loving and warm parent when he wasn’t off killing people for a genocidal megalomaniac do you?”

Molly Weasley clucked sympathetically at that.

“Can’t you play nice?” Hermione demanded, and all the Weasley brothers laughed at that and, after a moment, Theo joined them.

“This _is_ playing nice,” Theo said, and Potter laughed with him for the first time in their lives. 

Hermione looked at Ginny, and both women rolled their eyes, but Hermione couldn’t not smile as Ron, George and Theo began to argue, tentatively at first, and then with greater and greater vehemence, about some trivial Quidditch scandal. Ron finally threw his napkin down and handed Teddy over to Percy and said, “Fine. I’ll show you. Come out back, and we’ll get out the brooms, and I’ll _prove_ it was a foul.” Theo, George, and Harry all followed him outside, and Hermione looked at Molly Weasley.

“Boys,” the woman said. “They get bigger, but they never grow up. Let’s enjoy the relative quiet before they all come back looking for pie.”

“It wasn’t a foul,” Ginny said as she poured herself more wine. 


	4. Chapter 4

Blaise had decided to live with Draco for several reasons, not least of which was that a man with a flat mate was a man women invited back to their own places instead of angling to spend the whole night in his bed. That was a major upside of their arrangement; the main downside was that he had to live with Draco.

Most of the time Draco simply wallowed in his own prattish misery. The man’s childhood would have given even experienced therapists hives and, if growing up with Lucius Malfoy as what passed for a role model wouldn’t have been bad enough on its own, there had been the war. 

Draco hadn’t handled the war well. Blaise knew the man cast silencing charms every night to keep his nightmares to himself; he knew Draco had walled himself up behind a mask until he himself might not even know anymore how much of his arrogant condescension was real and how much was just protection against yet another person who, weighing ‘aristocrat’ and ‘Death Eater’, decided they hated the Death Eater more than they were awed by the Wizarding prince. 

Blaise could hardly blame Draco for the way he coped with it all. Theo just hid. Blaise sought endless reassurance he was lovable. Draco pushed people away before they could tell him he wasn’t. Other than his sullen silences, however, he was a reasonably decent flat mate. He didn’t play loud music, didn’t bring girls home, didn’t leave dirty dishes out. He didn’t, thank Merlin, want to talk about his feelings. Ever.

At least, he hadn’t wanted to talk about his feelings until Hermione Granger had told him where he could put his arrogant bullshite.

Now, well, he talked.

He talked all the damn time,

“Why does she like you and not me?” Draco asked from the couch where he was tossing a Snitch back and forth from one hand to the other. 

Blaise looked up from the kitchen counter and stared into the cupboards in front of him. This was the fifth time they’d had some variation on this conversation and he was losing patience with it.

“Maybe,” he said, “because I’m likeable and you aren’t?”

“I’m likeable,” Draco protested.

Blaise just snorted at that. “I like you because I’ve known you forever but, mate, be realistic.”

“I am,” Draco said stubbornly.

Blaise went back to fixing his sandwich. “How about we just agree that you’re bad with women?”

“I thought girls liked it when you kissed their hands and called them beautiful.”

They were out of mustard. This day was going downhill quickly. Not only was Draco having this conversation _again,_ now they were out of a necessary condiment and he’d have to go all the way across town to get the mustard he liked. 

“Blaise,” Draco whined.

“Girls you’ve called Mudblood for years are often less amenable to hand kissing and compliments.”

“Why?”

Blaise turned all the way around to look at Draco in disbelief. He knew the man wasn’t an idiot so this was ridiculous. “Not to go out on a crazy, theoretical limb here,” Blaise said at last, “but maybe it was because she knew it was total horse shite?”

Draco frowned. “So I’m supposed to say, ‘Hey, now that you aren’t filthy and disgusting let’s go out?’ She’s a pureblood now; it’s different. She should know that.”

All Blaise said was, “You could try not seeing her as filthy. Women don’t like that.” He paused for a moment, “Well, some of them do but – “

Draco cut him off. “Shut up about your sex life.”

“It’s not my fault you don’t have one to talk about,” Blaise send with a shrug, settling on an inferior mustard as the best of a series of bad condiment choices and returning to making his sandwich, an activity far more likely to result in a positive outcome than counseling Draco about women.

Draco, however, wasn’t letting it go. “Seriously, Blaise, what do I do?”

“About Hermione?” Blaise asked.

Draco missed the Snitch and Blaise could hear the thing buzzing about their living room. This was why they couldn’t have nice things. 

“You’re on a first name basis with her? When did this happen?” Draco demanded.

Blaise carried his sandwich to the table. “We go out multiple times every week, you idiot. You didn’t really think I still called her ‘Granger’ did you?”

Draco sullenly muttered, “It’s her name.”

“Debatable,” Blaise said, “but, since if I called her ‘Nott’ she might throw some of that vile tea at me, I stick with ‘Hermione.’”

“What do I do?” Draco asked again.

Blaise sighed. “We’ve had this conversation before. Why are you pushing so hard? There are lots of girls out there, most of whom you didn’t torment for years. Why this one? Because, honestly Draco, if it’s just because you’ve latched onto her as an appropriate pureblood wife, I’m not helping you.”

“Some mate you are,” Draco said, standing up to grab the Snitch down from behind a lamp.

“Merlin.” Blaise gave Draco a disgusted glare. “It is.”

“Pureblood princesses are a little thin on the ground, Blaise.”

“You really are an arsehole, you know that?” Blaise asked.

Draco had sunk back down onto the couch and was glaring back. “Since when do you care about Hermione Granger?”

“Maybe,” Blaise smirked, “I’ve decided I’ll marry her myself.”

Draco looked panicked. “You can’t do that,” he said.

“Why not,” Blaise asked, finally enjoying this conversation. “She likes me. I like her. We enjoy spending time together, she’s the adored sister of one of my best friends, and she’s not exactly hard on the eyes. Sounds perfect, actually.”

“She’s mine,” Draco insisted and Blaise laughed. Draco had never liked to share his toys but watching him do this over a woman who wouldn’t even speak to him was unexpectedly amusing.

“Since when?” Blaise asked.

“She just is,” Draco insisted.

Blaise leaned back in his seat and regarded his blond flat mate. “Uh huh,” he said. “I’m pretty sure she’s not aware of this rather dubious claim you think you’ve staked because if she knew about it you’d have a broken arm or something. You were beastly to her as a kid and, upon meeting her as an adult, you basically slobbered over her blood status. I can guarantee no witch anywhere likes that.”

“Pansy,” Draco muttered.

“Not even Pansy,” Blaise insisted.

Draco eyed his friend and finally said, just as Blaise had bitten into his sandwich, “I know you aren’t really interested in anyone who might curtail your attempt to sleep with every witch in Britain in alphabetical order.”

“I’m not actually trying to do it in alphabetical order,” Blaise said around a mouthful of food. He swallowed and added, “That would be far too difficult.”

“Do you realize you’re more of an arsehole than I could ever be?” Draco asked.

“But I’m a _charming_ arsehole,” Blaise said. “You’d be surprised what a difference that makes.” He looked at his long time friend, who seemed genuinely a bit lost, and he sighed. “Look, you might consider actually getting to know the woman as a person and not as some kind of blank template for whatever her current blood status is. Also, if you’ll take another bit of sincere advice, let her get past that miserable bastard you pretend to be most of the time. No promises, but she might like you if she knew you as more than a git hurling vile names at her.”

“All I am is that miserable bastard,” Draco said.

Blaise sighed again. “I know that’s all you think you are.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Sometimes Draco thought it might have been better if his father had simply picked up his hand, pressed it against a hot iron, and said, “That’s what touching a Mudblood is like.”

The encoding of the taboo had been much subtler than that though.

Draco didn’t even remember how it happened. He just knew that Mudbloods were a taboo caste the same way he knew not to touch that hot iron. He avoided brushing against them the same way he avoided walking off the edge of a cliff. Until he started Hogwarts he’d barely even known any half-bloods, for Merlin’s sake, much less a Mudblood. His mother would never have so much as allowed a Muggle-born in the Manor, not even as part of a catering staff or cleaning crew; he certainly would never have met one socially.

He’d grown up in a gilded circle of privilege so absolute he hadn’t even known it existed.

When Theo had told him he’d discovered he had a bastard sister that had been adopted out, Draco had been a little shocked. When he’d found out that abandoned child was Hermione Granger his world had gone white and he’d had trouble breathing. 

Of course she wasn’t a Mudblood.

No wonder she’d been so pushy and hadn’t known her place. No wonder she was so talented, so _magical_.

She’d never been a Mudblood.

It had never been her place.

She must have been so relieved, he’d thought, to find out why she’d been different. She was like a swan raised among ducks, always trying to make herself known to people who were so far beneath her they couldn’t have understood her if they’d tried while her own flock had rejected her. 

He felt like an idiot that he hadn’t seen it, hadn’t figured it out. He felt guilty, so very guilty. If only he’d realized no girl that talented – no girl that special – could possibly have been a Mudblood he could have spared her a childhood spent among Muggles and blood traitors. He cringed when he thought of what she’d endured, some of it at his hands. Merlin, she was brave and resilient and amazing. He didn’t think he could have done it; his own childhood had been bad enough.

Don’t think about that.

It made sense, really, that she and Blaise had become such good friends so quickly. She’d been starved her whole life, deprived the company of her equals. Even Blaise, lecherous prat that he was, had to be a joy after the Weasleys and whatever it was that had raised her. Of course, the idea that Blaise would marry her was absurd. She was Sacred Twenty-Eight and belonged with one of her own kind. 

With him.

He’d bungled that, unfortunately. Hermione Granger might actually be less pleased with him now, after he tried to be nice and treat her like the pureblood that she was, than she had been when she’d called him a cockroach and hit him.

I’ll make this right, Draco vowed to himself. I’ll do what Blaise suggests: I’ll get to know her as a person. I’ll go slowly. Maybe she doesn’t even understand how special she is now, he thought, how different. How much better. I’ll help her. I’ll make up for every time I didn’t do right by her before.

Maybe, he thought, if she values me because I’m as much a prince as she is a princess, it won’t matter to her that I’m a worthless failure and a Death Eater.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo and Hermione had decided to work their way through every Thai restaurant they could reasonably walk to from his flat. He’d been dubious, at first, about eating in Muggle establishments. “Are they clean?” he’d whispered to her at the first one. “How can they keep the kitchens sanitary without magic?”

She’d rolled her eyes and told him he wasn’t going to die for lack of cleaning spells but if he didn’t like the green curry they wouldn’t come back. Now they sat in the fifth one they’d tried and argued about whether this place or the third one had had better soup – the fourth had been a disaster and was not a contender - until Theo set down his tea cup and broached a topic far less comfortable than food.

“I really wish you’d give Draco another chance,” he said.

Hermione groaned. He wasn’t going to let this go. “Theo,” she said, “I love you, I do, but he’s a prejudiced arsehole.”

“So is Blaise,” Theo pointed out, “and you two have coffee several times a week.”

“I’m working on Blaise,” Hermione said.

“So work on Draco.”

Hermione picked up her spoon and poked at the bamboo shoots floating in her soup. “I’d rather not,” she said. “There are some projects that I recognize as doomed to failure.”

Theo reached over and picked the bamboo shoot out of her bowl with his fingers and popped it into his mouth as she glared at him. “Hey,” he said with a grin. “I’m learning from Ron. Eat it quickly or it’s gone.”

She laughed and Theo decided to try again. “Hermione, Draco’s the brother I never had. He’s been my best friend for years. Please give him a chance; I swear, he likes you. Blaise says he never shuts up about how upset he is that he blew it that night.”

“I’m supposed to be happy now that he likes me for my blood status?” Hermione asked. “Because that’s _all_ he knows about me; it’s all he’s ever known about me.”

“He knows you helped defeat a madman who’d made his life hell,” Theo pointed out very quietly and Hermione sighed. If anyone had asked her when they were in school whether the Slytherins supported Voldemort she would have said yes, absolutely. Look at Draco Malfoy. Look at all of them. 

Thanks to Theo and Blaise she knew better now. They’d all been terrified, and far closer to that monster than she’d been. If they’d rebelled, they’d have died. If they’d failed any task they were given, they’d have wished for death. She, who’d experienced torture at the hands of a woman who’d hated her, couldn’t imagine having the threat of it there, all the time, from people who supposedly loved you. It was a good thing her birth father was in Azkaban because otherwise she might kill him for the way he’d let Theo live in constant fear.

“You’re asking me…. Theo, no,” she said, picturing Draco Malfoy as he leaned against the walls at Hogwarts and called her names.

“You gave Blaise a chance,” Theo protested.

“Blaise is different,” Hermione said.

“No he’s not,” Theo snorted. “He’s just more charming.”

Hermione grinned at that. “That’s true enough, though I doubt anyone is less charming than Draco Malfoy.”

“Are you really going to write him off just because he’s less suave than Blaise? Because everyone alive is less suave than Blaise,” Theo said.

Hermione made grouchy noises as she ate her soup and Theo tried not to grumble at her. Finally he said, “If you do that, you’re no better than all those idiot girls Blaise charms into his bed, you know.”

“That’s a low blow,” Hermione protested.

Theo shrugged. “I’m a Slytherin. We fight dirty, remember?”

“You really aren’t going to give up, are you?” Hermione asked and when Theo smirked at her she sighed. “Fine! For you – and only for you - I’ll go out to dinner with you and that prick. But if he touches me – “

“I’ll tell him,” Theo promised. “No touching. No kissing your hand. No presents.” He paused as a sudden thought occurred to him. “Shite. Did either Blaise or I warn you about the presents?”

“Does Draco give presents the way Fred -” Hermione stumbled over the name and Theo reached a hand out across the table toward her. She smiled gratefully at him and kept going, “And George did? Do?”

“Huh?” Theo asked.

“Things that are likely to blow up?” Hermione said impatiently, “or poison you?”

“No. Merlin, do they really do that?”

“Never eat anything George gives you. Ever,” Hermione said.

Theo frowned and set his spoon down. “He gave me a box of chocolate the other day.”

Hermione tensed. “Fuck. No. Don’t eat any of them.”

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” Theo asked.

Hermione shuddered. “You could blow up like a puffer fish? Start vomiting? Turn purple? Just… throw them away. All of them.” She paused, and then asked, “What’s the worst thing that could happen if I accepted a present from Malfoy?”

“Not just him,” Theo insisted. “Any pureblood. No presents.”

“I’m still waiting for the explanation.”

Theo ran a hand though his hair and mumbled, “It could be perceived as a kind of… pre-engagement thing. Like you’d agreed to something… permanent.”

Hermione set down her spoon and stared at him. “What the fuck? From just some random present?”

Theo said, as quickly as he could, “I mean, I wouldn’t hold you to it. The threat of blasting you off the family tree if you didn’t go through with it wouldn’t exactly move you and I’d never do that anyway. Any arsehole that tried to trick you into an understanding you didn’t, well, understand would end up regretting it. But… just do me a favor and don’t take presents from boys you don’t know. Or do know. Or any boys. At all. Ever.”

Hermione picked her spoon up again and went back to her soup, still not sure whether this one was better. “You people are weird,” was all she said on the subject of the presents and purebloods. 

“Trust me,” Theo said, “I know.”


	5. Chapter 5

Watching the way Theo paced made Hermione tense. He’d wiped the table down three times, had pulled out first firewhiskey, then wine, then firewhiskey again, and then muttered that maybe curry hadn’t been the best takeaway to get, maybe they should have just gone to a nice restaurant where no one would end up throwing things.

This mattered to him. It mattered a lot.

Hermione swore to herself that no matter how vile Draco Malfoy was, no matter how angry he made her, she’d be nice to the git for Theo’s sake. She didn’t have to marry the man, didn’t have to even be friends with him. All she had to do was be civil.

She could do that.

She was sure she could do that.

Of course, based on the way Theo was acting he expected this dinner to be as much of a disaster as the last one had been.

She finally stopped his nervous fussing by placing her hand on his arm. “Theo,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“Relax. It will be fine. I will behave, I promise.”

He gave her a look that suggested he doubted she could manage that and she bristled a little but pushed on. “I’m glad you’re my brother. This adoption thing, and having Malfoy be all… being…”

“A pureblood?” he asked drying.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “It’s… I’m not comfortable with it.”

Theo slouched a little against the counter of his kitchen and she saw the way he quickly tried to mask how much that upset him. She wrapped her arms around him and squeezed and, with a sigh, he returned the hug. “But I’m really glad about _you_,” she said and she could feel him relax, at least a little.

He let he go and stepped back. “Hermione,” he said, sounding embarrassed.

“Yeah?”

“I’m really glad about you too.”

Hermione had figured out that purebloods, other than the Weasleys, took the idea of a stiff upper lip to a whole new level; Theo was painfully uncomfortable with admitting any sort of feelings and now he was pausing as thought he had something else he needed to say.

“Thanks for giving Draco another chance,” he finally muttered. “I know he’s a fuckup and an arsehole and… but it means a lot to me.”

She poured herself a glass of wine, foregoing the firewhiskey as far too likely to make her be honest with Malfoy, a clear road to disaster. “Why do you like him?”

“Draco?” Theo asked and, when she nodded, he laughed. “Why do you like Ron Weasley?”

“We’ve been friends since we were kids,” Hermione said. “He rescued me from a troll -“

Theodore blinked, the pureblood equivalent of an open-mouthed gape. “He what? What were you doing near a troll?”

Hermione laughed. “It’s a long story, and a bit embarrassing. Anyway, it’s hard not to be friends after that.”

“I suppose,” Theo said, though his tone suggested that, while he was perfectly willing to accept the Weasleys in general, he still had less than warm feelings about Ron in particular.

“Why do you like Draco?” Hermione asked.

“Friends since we were kids,” Theo said, “and, though I know you’ve never seen the good side of him, he really does have one. He’s loyal and takes care of the people he loves to the point of idiocy. He’s… there are worse things in life than having Draco Malfoy on your side.”

She sighed. “I really have to figure out a way to deal with him, don’t I?”

Theo regarded her over his own glass of wine. “I got him to promise to back off the insanely stupid attempt to court you. That should help.”

They stood there looking at one another as the doorbell rang.

“Well,” Hermione said, “I guess we’re about to find out.”

“Hermione, be nice,” Theo said, his voice low.

“I will,” she said.

“Promise me,” he pushed.

“Merlin,” she muttered. “I already did. I’ll be nice to your ferret, Theo, I promise.” With that she opened the door to Theo’s small flat, leaving him in the kitchen sipping from his wine and watching the door in nervous anticipation of another explosion.

Draco stood at the door, a bouquet of flowers in his hand that he gracelessly thrust towards Hermione.

“Look, Theo,” she said as she took them. “Malfoy brought you flowers. Wasn’t that sweet?”

“Play nice,” Theo muttered.

“I am playing nice,” Hermione objected but Theo snorted as he took the flowers from her and found them a vase.

“Hey, Granger,” Draco said. “Nott.” He bit the side of his lip and looked at her. “What do you want me to call you?”

“Hermione’s fine,” she said.

“Hermione, then. Hey. Theo.” He nodded his head at the lanky dark haired man who nodded back.

She crossed her arms as she looked at the man, still standing just inside the doorway. “Hello, Malfoy.”

“Don’t suppose you’d use my first name too?” Draco asked.

Hermione smiled tightly. “Don’t suppose I would, no.”

Draco just nodded and entered the room. “So, how are you?” he asked as he sat down on the same couch on which he’d flirted with her the last time they’d been together. Judging by his sudden, quickly suppressed grimace, he remembered that meeting.

“I’m fine,” Hermione said. “How are you?”

“Awkward,” Draco admitted and Theo laughed from the kitchen.

Hermione sighed and sat down on the far end of the same couch.

“Look,” Draco said, “I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” Hermione asked.

Draco just looked at her and she felt herself begin to squirm under that gaze. “Well,” he finally said, “we could start with the way I, uh, slobbered all over you last time I saw you.”

“Okay.” Hermione drew the word out. “Apology accepted.”

Draco looked down at his feet. “It’s… you’re just… I don’t know how to… I’ve never known anyone who’s gone from Mu –“

Theo cut him off. “I’d stop right there if I were you.”

“I’m not actually trying to be a jerk,” Draco muttered.

“It’s just a native talent, isn’t it?” Hermione said under her breath and Theo made an unhappy noise.

“Hermione, you promised,” Theo said.

Draco gave Theo a quick look and then returned his attention to Hermione. “How about you give me a list.”

“What?” she asked.

“A list of all the things I need to apologize for,” Draco said.

“I don’t think I want to kill that many trees,” Hermione said, this time with an actual smirk on her face.

“_Hermione!_” Theo snapped and she blushed.

“How about the way you called me names?” she said, sounding a little, if not a lot, repentant.

“Done,” Draco said. “I am sorry. Really and truly.”

“Because it was nasty or because it turned out to be inaccurate?” she asked. Draco looked suddenly uncertain, as if he were trying to figure out how he could give her the right answer without technically lying and she felt the same prickle of irritation she’d felt the last time they’d met. “So… I just want to be clear here, you’re sorry you called me a Mudblood because it turned out I wasn’t one, not because it was a rotten thing to do?”

“Rotten thing,” Draco said quickly. “Because it was a rotten thing to do.”

“I’m not sure I believe you,” she said but, at that, Theo had had enough.

“Merlin, Hermione,” he said from where he still stood in the kitchen. “Did you put Blaise through the wringer like this? I know you didn’t do this to me. If you had any idea how any of us would have been… talking to Muggle-borns was right out. My father – our father - would have… just, be reasonable.”

Hermione exhaled and took a drink from her glass and then set it down. “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. Let me start again. Hey, Malfoy. Draco. It’s good to see you. How have you been since the –.” She stopped, realizing bringing up the war wasn’t going to make things less uncomfortable. “Since school?” she settled on.

“Good,” Draco said. “Thanks. And you?”

“Good,” she said, repeating him. “The adoption thing was a bit of a shocker I have to admit.”

“I’m sure,” he said. 

Hermione pressed on. “What do you do with yourself these days?”

Draco paused at that before he said, “Not much. I live with Blaise. It’s hard to compete with his social life.”

Hermione smiled at that. “He’s mentioned you two are flatmates.”

“You?” Draco asked.

“I live alone,” she said. They sat there, false smiles on their faces as they each searched for another safe topic. She settled on games. “Do you still play Quidditch?”

“No, not really,” Draco said as Theo handed him a glass of his own. Draco took a big swallow before setting it down.

“Why not?” Hermione asked, “You were really good. I mean, not that I know what I’m looking at with sport of any kind, but you seemed good.”

“No place to do it,” Draco said.

Hermione looked at Theo, a little confused by Malfoy’s reluctance to talk about Quidditch, but her brother’s face was a study in neutrality. She focused back on Draco and said, “Ron and Harry both play in a rec league. Why don’t you –?”

“I tried out,” he said, cutting her off. “No room on the team.”

“So, try another team.”

“No spots,” Draco said, picking up his glass and taking another substantial swig of wine.

Hermione began to understand and she didn’t like it. “Not on any team?” she asked.

“Not for me, no,” Draco said. “Do we really have to talk about this, Granger? You don’t even like Quidditch.”

“I’m… I thought Quidditch would be a safe topic. I’m sorry,” she said.

Theo started to talk. “A lot of people – “

Draco interrupted him, throwing the words out like a challenge. “Not guilty by reason of being too young and stupid to know what I was doing doesn’t mean people have to associate with me, or that they will outside the inner pureblood circle.”

“Oh,” Hermione said.

Draco mimicked her. “Oh.”

“Not so fun to be on the other end of the prejudice, is it?” Hermione asked.

“Merlin, Hermione,” Theo snapped. “You _promised._”

“Ugh.” Hermione tried again. “So, how are you parents?”

“Azkaban and house arrest.” Draco took another drink.

“Fuck,” she said, staring at him. “Is there anything good about your life?” Draco looked trapped and didn’t answer and Hermione began to feel actually guilty so she tried again to find a safe topic. “How’s your mother handling house arrest?”

Draco sounded grateful when he responded. “Fine. She’s a little stir-crazy, maybe, but it could be a lot worse. I go visit her several times a week.”

“That’s nice of you,” she said.

“Want to come with me?” he asked and Theo made a noise that sounded like the non-verbal equivalent of the ‘you promised’ and Draco shuffled on the couch.

Hermione just rolled her eyes at the invitation. “Your mother wouldn’t let me in the front door.”

Draco looked at her. “Hermione Granger, no. Hermione _Nott_? Daughter of the Sacred Twenty-Eight? She’d welcome you with open arms and throw open her jewelry box to me so I could find something pretty to give you.”

“Great,” Hermione muttered.

“You’d rather I lie to you?”

“No,” she admitted with a frown. “I guess… this whole thing is very strange and –“

“I can imagine,” Draco said.

“I don’t like it,” Hermione said.

“Why?” Draco sounded genuinely curious.

“Thanks a lot,” Theo muttered.

“I like _you_, Theo,” Hermione said, trying to decide how much she wanted to reveal of how hard the whole discovery of her new social status had been. “Just… the rest of… you people have weird customs and… I’m still who I was but out of the blue –.” She turned to Theo. “Did I tell you Marcus Flint came up to me in a bookstore and tried to buy my books for me and get me to go to lunch with him?”

Theo paled. “Please tell me you said no.”

“Of course I said no,” she snapped. “It’s just gross and weird the way people are suddenly all over me when they wouldn’t have spit on me before.” She looked rather pointedly at Draco.

“He would have spit on you,” Draco said, ignoring her look.

“What?”

“Marcus,” Draco clarified. “He would have spit on you.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” she demanded.

Draco huffed out a sharp exhale and looked at her for a long minute. At last he said, “I’m just –.” Then he stopped again and seemed to search for the right words before he turned to Theo and snapped, “How can you let her just go out into the world when she’s totally ignorant like this?”

“Excuse me?” Hermione said, feeling outrage creep up her stiffening spine.

Draco turned back to her. “You don’t know _anything_. It’s just –“

“I’m trying, okay?” Theo said, “But –“

“I don’t care about your pureblood bullshite,” Hermione insisted.

“And you think that matters why?” Draco asked with evident impatience.

“What?” Hermione was starting to feel like all she did was sputter at Draco.

“Marcus Flint,” he said. “Adrian Pucey. There are so many people who will see you as a… tool or a bargaining chip or a… and this arsehole is just letting you wander around. It doesn’t matter whether you care or not because, Merlin, you’re a babe in a fucking shark tank.”

Theo said, “We haven’t exactly taken out an ad in the paper, you know, Draco. I doubt most people even know –“

“Marcus knew,” Draco said flatly. “And if Marcus knows everyone knows.”

“Look, Theo already warned me about the presents thing, which is damn weird, and –“

“Oh well, great,” Draco said to her. “You got tipped off on one major social custom. That must mean you’re totally safe now because no culture ever has more than one way you can horribly misstep.”

Hermione ignored the tiny voice in her head telling that her Draco Malfoy, of all people, was right, instead just muttering defensively “Why do you care?”

I realize you think I’m a total arsehole,” he said, “and, hell, you have some good reasons to think that, but... you’re my best friend’s sister and I’d really rather he not end up fighting endless duels to protect your honor because you went and fucked it up, okay?”

Hermione looked at Theo, horrified. “Could that happen?”

“Yes,” he muttered.”

“Give me a list,” Hermione demanded.

This time it was Theo who gaped at her and said, “What?”

Hermione made an impatient gesture. “Just… get me a list of things I can’t do or say or… and I can fight my own damn duels.”

Draco looked amused. “I don’t think I want to kill that many trees.”

“Prick,” she snapped.

“By the way,” he said, “If you want to announce to the world your brother’s incompetent and thus destroy any future career or social life he might want, you go right ahead and fight your own duels.”

“But I’d _win_,” Hermione said.

Theo gave her an annoyed look. “So would I.”

Draco leaned towards her and Hermione could feel herself shrink back against the arm of the couch at her back as she tried to keep the distance between them. Draco had the bad grace to notice the movement and smirk at it before he said, his voice totally serious. “You have to be careful; there are too many people who are going to want to use you now. You can trust Theo. You can trust Blaise. Hell, you can trust me, though I doubt you do.”

“I don’t,” she said with a snap.

“Well, you can, because as much as I’m a vile prat and all, I have no interest in trapping you into anything,” he said and then sighed. “Granger. Nott. Fuck, Hermione. You’re Theo’s sister, the sister he’s wanted his whole damn life, and that means I have to make nice to you if I want to see him. It’s not like I have so many friends I can afford to… if you can’t trust me to be decent, can you at least trust me to be self-interested?”

“Yes, I guess I can trust that,” Hermione admitted begrudgingly.

“Then, can we work at being friends or something?” Draco asked.

“I don’t know,” she said, still pressing herself away from him on the couch.

He leaned back again and gave her space. “Whatever you want, Hermione. Just… don’t rob me of one of the few things I have left in my life.”

She flinched at that. “You really are a manipulative bastard, you know that?”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I can also help you figure out how to navigate this world you found yourself dumped into if you want. I’ve got a little more time on my hands than Blaise.”

“So a little guilt and a bit of a carrot?” Hermione asked.

“Are we on?”

Hermione glanced over at Theo who wasn’t quite holding his breath but seemed to be trying very hard not to interrupt the possible start of a truce. “I suppose we are,” she said.

Draco exhaled and seemed to relax. “Tell me about yourself, sister of my best friend. What do you like to do, what do you like to eat?”

“I like Thai food,” Hermione said.

“I’ve never tried that,” Draco commented.

Hermione felt a smile work its way onto her face. “Would you like to come out and get some with me sometime. At a Muggle restaurant.” Draco’s relaxation disappeared and he mumbled something incoherent. “Surely you can handle eating in a Muggle establishment?” Hermione said, still smiling.

“I…” Draco said.

“I mean, you aren’t going to tell me you’re too prejudiced to try it, right?” Hermione went on.

Draco managed to look both horrified and impressed at the same time.

“She _is_ my sister, you know,” Theo said, sounding amused.

“So I see,” Draco muttered. “I’m getting the feeling she’ll pick up the pureblood thing fairly quickly.” He tilted his head to the side and regarded the smirking woman on the couch. “I’d love to go out to a Muggle restaurant with you, Hermione.”

“Great,” she said.

“It is safe, right?” Draco said under his breath to Theo. “She’s not actually trying to kill me, right?”

“So far I’ve been fine,” Theo reassured him. “You’ll be fine.”

“Great,” Draco said. “That sounds great.”


	6. Chapter 6

Draco sat on their couch, tossing his snitch from one hand to another. “I’m going to make her like me,” he said. “I am.”

Blaise snorted and didn’t look up from his Quidditch magazine. 

“We’re going out,” Draco said. “To dinner.”

That made Blaise look up, an incredulous look on his face. “How did you manage to get her to say yes to that? Did you imperius her or something?”

Draco smirked, still smugly tossing the snitch from one hand to another. “Didn’t need to. She asked me out.”

“Was it take pity on Theo’s arsehole friends day or something?”

“No,” Draco said, still smug, “that was the day she started going out for coffee with you.” He tossed the little golden ball up and snagged it from the air. “Arsehole.”

“Uh huh.” Blaise looked back at his magazine. “So where are you going? The new French place in Diagon Alley? They’ve got this great dessert they do with cream and –“

“I dunno,” Draco said. “Does it matter? Some Muggle place.”

Blaise blinked once, then again, and put the magazine down. “I’m sorry,” he said. “What?”

“Which part didn’t you understand?” Draco asked with a smirk. “The part about how Hermione Granger asked me out on a date?”

“No, I got that, though I question her judgment.” Blaise narrowed his eyes. “The confusing bit is the part where Draco ‘I don’t date half-bloods’ Malfoy is going to a Muggle restaurant. Because I had to have heard that wrong.”

“Don’t be such a –“

“Pureblood elitist snob?” Blaise asked. “Because that doesn’t describe you at all, does it?”

“I’m not a snob,” Draco protested.

“What? Are you really so totally lacking in self-awareness?” Blaise laughed and reached for his magazine but before he could grab it Draco plopped his feet on top of it and smirked.

“I’m going to a Muggle restaurant, which is more than you’ve ever done. Does that sound snobby to you?” Draco tossed the snitch up again and caught it with one hand and then passed it back to the other, utterly pleased with himself.

Blaise snorted. “It sounds desperate and a little pathetic.”

Draco stiffened and closed his hand around the ball. “I’m going to make her like me, Blaise. And if that takes going to some vermin infested Muggle place then that’s what I’ll do.”

“Uh huh.” Blaise was clearly not impressed. “What’s the endgame here?”

“I beg your pardon?” Draco slowly released the snitch and grabbed it back out of the air where it hovered with a vicious swipe of his hand.

“I know you, Draco,” Blaise said. “You’re up to something.”

The man made a small, idle shrug. “I’m just getting to know my good mate’s newfound sister.”

Blaise just looked at his friend. “You still have this deluded idea you can get that woman to fall for you, don’t you? Even though she knows you’re a fucking arsehole, you think she’ll somehow overlook that and fall madly in love with, what, your blood status?”

“She’s a pureblood princess, Blaise,” Draco said. “She deserves the best.”

Blaise smirked and said, “I’ve already told her I’m not interested.”

“Arsehole,” Draco muttered, tossing the snitch up again.

Blaise stood up and grabbed the snitch out of the air. “Don’t fuck around with her, Draco. She had a shitty time at school, thanks a lot to you, and her wartime experiences were just as awful as yours. You want a pureblood princess, go flirt with one of the Greengrass girls. This one’s never going to be your little dream girl. As your friend, as her friend, I’m telling you to let it alone.”

Draco reached for the snitch but Blaise stepped back. “She just needs to learn how to be what she is,” Draco said. “I’m just helping her be who she is.”

Blaise snorted. “Go on and teach her every last social code. You could get her so she could pass inspection by your bloody mother and she _still_ wouldn’t be anything other than what she already is.”

“Maybe I like what she already is,” Draco said. “Give me back my snitch.”

“If you liked her for who she already is, you’d be a lot smarter than you are,” Blaise said, still holding the snitch out of reach.

“You weren’t exactly taking her out for coffee when she was a Mudblood either,” Draco said.

“Yeah?” Blaise asked. “That I’m a prick doesn’t give you a free pass to be one too. You want a bit more than a mate, my friend. You’re talking about wanting a _wife_.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Draco demanded.

Blaise crossed his arms. “If she turned out to be - lets not even say Muggle born, let’s say half-blood - if it turned out Theo’s lovely mother had an affair with someone who _wasn’t_ a pureblood and that’s why they hid the baby away, would you still want to marry her? Still be willing to go out to Muggle restaurants to make her happy?”

Draco was silent.

Blaise made a disgusted noise. “That’s what I thought. Because I’d still be buying her that vile tea she insists on drinking if she turned out to be exactly what we thought she was a year ago and you know why? It’s because she’s not a Muggle-born or a pureblood to me; she’s Hermione. She’s funny and acerbic and a lot more, frankly, than you deserve.”

Draco glared at his friend. “She’s a pureblood.”

Blaise shook his head. “Do you not get it? She’s not going to take your pathetic little courtship seriously until that doesn’t matter to you.”

Draco made a face. “How can it not matter?”

Blaise sighed.

“She’s special,” Draco insisted. “She’s _different_.”

Blaise threw the snitch at Draco’s face. “Yes, she is.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco cast the silencing charms, the way he did every night, hoping this would be one of the rare nights he didn’t wake up screaming, the way he did almost every night.

Snakes. Voldemort. The Mark being burned into his arm. Days and nights of terror that everyone he loved would die because he’d been set an impossible task. Seeing Dumbledore fall away off that tower. Watching Vincent die. 

Watching Hermione Granger be tortured in front of him.

Helpless.

He’d been helpless to do anything but struggle to stay alive.

Think of the good things, his mother had suggested. List off the good things in your life and that will help ward off the dreams. 

And he tried. How he tried.

One, he thought as he lay in the dark, I’m a pureblood. I’m special and different and nothing can take that away. No failure, no torture, no brand on my arm can ever make me not be part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight.

Two. My mother is alive and not in prison. She’s healthy and sane and we survived.

Two and a half, he thought. Lucius is in Azkaban. Things to never admit to anyone I put in the good column.

Three. Hermione Granger is going to have dinner with me and talk to me. If she likes me, maybe –

But don’t think about that, Draco told himself, closing down his thoughts, because, no matter what smug bravado he put on for Blaise, he knew she was never going to look past… if he could just get her to value herself as a pureblood, the way she should, then maybe she’d value him as one, and then everything would be okay. Don’t ever hope for more than being the desirable prince.

He could teach her to want the prince.

No one, least of all Hermione Granger, would ever be stupid enough to care about the failed Death Eater.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ginny lounged on the bed in Hermione’s room watching the other woman get dressed.

“Malfoy?” she asked again. “I mean, really? You’re going out with _Malfoy_?”

“I know,” Hermione said. “It’s weird, right?” She held two skirts out and made faces at both of them. Ginny pointed at the one in her right hand and with a shrug Hermione slipped it on.

“It’s beyond weird,” Ginny said. “Have you gone mental?”

“Maybe?” Hermione said. “I don’t know. Theo was all, ‘Can’t you be nice to my friend’ and his life has been such shite, you know? Do you like these shoes?”

“Too high,” Ginny said. “Your feet will hurt too much and you hate that. And, I know, that father.”

Hermione dropped the shoes and fished another pair out and Ginny nodded at those shoes and Hermione put them on. “My father too. Can you imagine?”

“I’d rather not,” Ginny said with a shudder.

“So,” said Hermione, “ I agreed to meet with the ferret because, I mean, what could it hurt. I just told myself to be civil and then I ended up feeling sorry for him.”

“Well, he is a pathetic git,” Ginny admitted.

Hermione leaned back and held up a pair of earrings. “Do you like these?”

“Sure,” Ginny said then lay back on the bed and laughed. “Are we really worrying about what you’ll wear to go out with _Malfoy_? I mean, the whole idea seems absurd.”

Hermione sighed. “I… it’s stupid isn’t it?”

“I don’t get why he’s suddenly so interested in you,” Ginny said. First the hand kissing thing and now going out to dinner.”

“In a Muggle restaurant no less,” Hermione said.

Ginny laughed. “You going to let him pick up the check?”

Hermione snorted at the idea. “Like he can even handle the money.” She tugged on a shirt. “This one?”

“Too tight,” Ginny said. Hermione narrowed her eyes. “No, you look great,” the ginger girl said quickly, “and if you were going out with Dean or something I’d tell you to absolutely wear that but I don’t like the idea of Malfoy looking at you like a woman he wants to… it’s just a disgusting idea.”

“So should I try to look dumpy, is that what you’re saying?” Hermione asked.

“No. I… no, you’re right. Wear that. Let him see what he can’t have,” Ginny said and Hermione laughed. “I wish I knew what he wanted from you.”

Hermione stopped what she was doing and turned to look at Ginny. “He wants a pureblood wife and, as we all know, I’m now Sacred Twenty-Eight. All special and shiny and I might not even sweat.”

“His _wife_?” Ginny pantomimed vomiting.

“I know, it’s vile the way he suddenly thinks of me as romantically interesting and he doesn’t even see why.” Hermione sighed. “These boys… the way they grew up. It’s… it’s kind of awful. I should be angry they’re such… but I end up just feeling sorry for them.”

“Well,” Ginny said, “Theo’s a love.”

“Isn’t he though?” Hermione smiled. “Best part of this whole giant lot of weird.”

“He’s also not the same kind of prejudiced arsehole Malfoy is. He didn’t exactly spend seven years trying to make you cry.”

“No,” Hermione said, “but… they all felt that way. Theo just… he just set it aside like a coat that didn’t fit anymore. Or he tried to. He still kind of flinches when he brushes up against a Muggle but he’s trying.” 

“How about Blaise,” Ginny asked.

Hermione laughed at that. “You really need to meet Blaise. He’s… he’s such an absolute prat but I can’t help but love him anyway.”

“Is he another one after a pureblood wife?” Ginny asked archly.

Hermione doubled over at that idea, she was laughing so hard. “Oh no. He goes out of his way to remind me every time we go out that this is _not_ a date and that we are _not _a couple. Something about expectations and pureblood mores and the like.”

“Merlin,” Ginny said from her place on the bed, “do they all still bother with that crap?”

“They do. Draco read Theo the riot act for ‘letting me go out’ when I don’t know what the ‘rules’ are.”

“And then you hexed his balls off?” Ginny sounded hopeful.

Hermione sighed. “I didn’t. Maybe, I don’t know, maybe he’s right. Maybe I have to figure this pureblood world out.”

“I’ve never bothered,” Ginny said. “But then, it’s not like it’s written down anywhere, you can’t just learn it from a book. That’s the crap they all pass on, along with the unwavering belief in their own superiority, and, you may have noticed, my parents don’t exactly care about any of that.”

“Yeah,” Hermione said, “but your family’s…”

“Blood traitors?”

“Yeah. Must be nice. You don’t get cornered by the Marcus Flints of the world who are after… something.”

Ginny propped herself up on her elbow at that name. “Ewww. Marcus Flint? The teeth.”

“I know, right?” Hermione said. “And it all matters to Theo. I’d tell them all to bugger off but it’s the only world he knows and its one he values and… I don’t know, Ginny. I’m torn between feeling like I should make an effort and feeling like why should I care what these people think of me? That their little social games don’t matter to me at all?” She fastened a belt and spun. “What do you think?”

“You look hot. Too hot for Malfoy.” She paused. “What are you going to talk about, anyway?”

“Not Quidditch,” Hermione muttered.

“Huh?”

“Never mind,” she sighed. “Mostly, I guess, the crazy rules of pureblood life. I think I’m his little project. Teach the Mudblood how to pass.”

“You aren’t a Mudblood,” Ginny objected and Hermione snorted but Ginny got very serious. “You aren’t. Normal people don’t care about blood status but Malfoy? I bet he cares very much. The Marcus Flints of the world care and so do the Draco Malfoys. If he wants you to be able to pass, it’s not out of the goodness of whatever black lump of coal passes for his heart. He wants –“

“He wants that pureblood wife,” Hermione said as she looked at Ginny. “You interested? You’re just as much oh-so-sacred twenty eight as I am.”

Ginny threw a pillow at her. “And here I thought we were friends.” She smirked, though, and added, “I’d take an introduction to Blaise, though.”

“Done,” Hermione said with a grin. “Maybe you’ll be the girl to finally tame his wandering heart.”

“Screw that. I was thinking about something a little less to do with his heart and little more to do with his –“

“Ginny!”

The girl laughed. “Hey. I’m a modern, liberated witch. You go off and learn how to be a good, pureblood girl and I’ll just go on with my bad blood traitor self and have fun with the pretty playboy.”

“I think you get the better end of that deal,” Hermione said, “but I do get to see Draco Malfoy squirm in a Muggle restaurant.”

“That does have some appeal, I admit.”

“I’ll tell you all about it afterward,” Hermione promised.

“You’d better,” Ginny said.


	7. Chapter 7

Hermione had Draco meet her outside her flat and walked with him to Blue Elephant, the restaurant she’d decided had the best green curry of the ones she and Theo had tried. She kept the conversation light and based on random things she’d read about in the _Prophet_. Draco bantered with her and, she had to admit, he could be genuinely charming when he tried.

When they reached the restaurant she heard him take a deep breath and looked over at his face; his smile had become forced and he looked nervous.

No, he looked terrified.

“I’ve eaten here with Theo,” she said quietly, feeling the need to reassure him. “It’s fine.”

He swallowed and held the door for her. As she thanked him and told the hostess they’d like a table for two, the pleasure she’d expected to take in seeing the man at her side squirm evaporated, replaced by concern for how vulnerable he seemed. 

“It’s very… clean,” he said as he sat down. “Nice, I mean. It’s very nice.”

“I eat here about once a week,” she said. “I’ve never gotten sick.”

“Of course not,” he said, smile firmly attached to his face. “What do you recommend?”

“Do you want me to order for you?” she asked and, with that tight smile, he nodded. “Do you like spicy food?” she asked and when he shook his head, nerves still shockingly clear in his grey eyes, she had to resist the urge to reach out and take his hand. 

The waitress came over and Hermione placed an order right away; she’d already decided not to drag this out. She’d thought it would be fun to see him struggle in a Muggle restaurant but now she just felt cruel. 

She didn’t like feeling protective of Draco Malfoy.

She didn’t like feeling _guilty _for bringing him here. She found herself wishing he’d be smug or arrogant or anything that would remind her what an utter prat he was, but he just sat, tensed against a world he didn’t know and in which didn’t feel safe, there because she’d suggested it.

She asked him about a book that had just come out and he answered her, and she asked if he’d read anything else by the author and he hadn’t so she described one of the man’s other books and Draco Malfoy grabbed onto the conversation as if it were a life raft and she just felt guiltier.

He’d been, she realized, afraid a lot.

She wanted to find a way to tell him that he didn’t need to be afraid, that nothing would happen other than a meal, but there didn’t seem to be a way to do that without openly acknowledging his fear and he seemed to be trying very hard to hide that. She thought she should be angry at him he was so biased against Muggles that he thought a restaurant could be dangerous but instead she was angry at his parents. She was angry at his worthless father, rotting in Azkaban with hers, who had instilled a prejudice so deep the man sitting across the table from her couldn’t even eat a meal with her in this place without bracing himself against contamination and the unknown.

So they ate and she kept his attention focused on her and, at last, they were done.

“Why don’t we go back to Diagon Alley to get some ice cream for dessert,” she suggested as she put her spoon down. The look of relief and gratitude in Draco’s eyes filled her with yet more guilt. 

Guilt. The flavor of the evening. She’d been expecting curry and a little bit of smug. Those would have been far more pleasant.

“If you want,” was all he said at first. Then, as she handed her credit card over to the waitress, he said, “Hermione.”

“Yes,” she asked.

“If we go out to a… to a place in our world together, people will assume we’re…” He didn’t seem to know how to finish that thought.

“A couple?” she asked and he nodded. “I go out with Blaise all the time,” she said, waiting for him to clarify his concern.

He laughed at that and she could feel herself tense. “Hermione,” he said quietly, “everyone knows Blaise is a player. No one, and I mean no one, takes any date of his seriously. But… I don’t take witches out. Ever. If we’re seen together people will… I don’t want to box you into having everyone think we’re a couple if that’s not something your comfortable with.”

“I thought that was something you wanted,” she said, watching him across the table as she waited for the waitress to return.

“It is,” he acknowledged and she could feel a flush creep into her cheeks. Draco smiled at that rising color but he didn’t comment on it, just continued with, “but I told Theo I’d back off and if we show up together at an ice cream parlour people will interpret that as… you might not quite understand how much import a date between two purebloods carries. It’s practically a job interview. People will assume it’s much more serious than… you may not like what people assume, that’s all I’m saying.”

“Why is this suddenly so different?” Hermione asked him, in between thanking the waitress and signing her check. “When I was just Hermione Granger, Mudblood, no one cared who I went out with.”

He pushed back his chair and offered her his hand to help her up. She saw his eyes go to the scar on her arm and saw the way he tried to mask the way he cringed. “It’s okay,” she said, picking up her purse and walking with him to the door. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

“Did it…?”

“Yes,” she said quietly. “She used a cursed blade or something. It hurt for a long time and the scar can’t be treated.”

“I’m so sorry,” he said, looking straight ahead as he held the door for her. “I wish I could have stopped her, saved you, stopped all of it.”

“Because I’m not a Mudblood so it’s not okay to have someone carve that into me?”

They were outside now, and he turned on the sidewalk to face her. “Because that woman was terrifying and horrible and no one should suffer what you did at her hands.”

“Not even a Mudblood,” she pushed him.

He looked away again. “Not even a Mudblood,” he agreed, his voice low.

She put her hand on his arm and he flinched. Hermione could feel her throat tighten and she pulled in a single, shuddering breath. “Thank you for that,” she said, closing her eyes and struggling for composure. 

“Come on,” he said, putting a hand over hers. “I think you promised me ice cream, unless the threat of being paired with me in the pureblood gossip mill has scared you away. I am going to insist you let me get this, however, as you got dinner.”

“Isn’t that against one of these rules you and Theo care about so much,” she asked, pushing away the emotions that had threatened to overwhelm her and smiling at him, albeit a little shakily.

He sighed. “If we go into a Wizarding ice cream parlour together people will assume it’s a date. If I buy, it will confirm it. And that means, because of who and what we both are, that people will assume we’re considering…”

But at that he dropped off, looking embarrassed.

“Why do people suddenly care,” she muttered, frustrated.

“Because you’re an aristocrat now,” Draco said. “You’re a _Nott_. You’re a member of one of the most important, wealthiest families in our world. You matter. You’re important. People are going to be interested in what you do.” He sighed and gave her a tired look. “At least with me you know I’m not going to try to trap you into anything because Theo would kill me.”

“What has my life come to that _you’re_ the person I can trust not to take advantage?” Hermione said, slumping down where the stood on the sidewalk. “I wish I could go back and just be me.” She clenched her jaw stubbornly. “Ginny doesn’t have these issues.”

“No,” Draco admitted. “But she could if she wanted to. She could have any pureblood bachelor in Britain with the crook of her finger because of who she is.” He paused. “So could you.”

Hermione suddenly grinned as she remembered Ginny’s request. “Draco,” she said, “would you be interested in a double date with Blaise and Ginny?”

“Any bachelor but Blaise,” he immediately corrected himself. “He’s… you know what he’s like.”

“Means I’d go out with you again,” Hermione coaxed.

Draco hesitantly took her hand in his and when she didn’t pull away he tightened his fingers. “Isn’t she with Potter?” he asked

“No, they broke up ages go. And she’s not interested in marriage any more than Blaise is,” Hermione reassured Draco. “She’s… she never sticks with anyone longer than a few months but she asked me to introduce her to him and – “

“Done,” Draco said, not letting go of Hermione’s hand. “I’ll convince him if I have to imperius the bastard.”

“That might be a bit excessive,” Hermione said.

Draco shrugged. “He’s a tosser.”

“I like him,” Hermione said.

“Do you like me?” Draco asked, the words seeming to rush out of his mouth before he could stop them.

She considered him and he looked like he wished he’d swallowed the question. At last she said, “I think I do. Enough, at least, to go out for ice cream and let your weird little world make of that what they will.”

“Well, good,” he said. “It will keep the rest of the prats from bothering you, at least.”

“I had considered that,” she admitted. 

“Your motives not wholly pure?” Draco said, relaxing enough to tease her just a little even if he clearly still expected her to snap at him or pull away.

“I am trying to learn how to fit into your pureblood world,” she teased back with a smile. “Though I have some opinions on that matter.”

Draco smiled back, a bit of an enigmatic look, “I’m sure you do. Well, then, let’s go.”

If Hermione hadn’t quite believed Draco when he said that being seen him with on what amounted to a date could cause a stir – and, really, there was no getting around that this was a _date_ – the response when they walked into the ice cream parlour together stripped her of any illusion she could be anonymous. People stopped and looked at them when they walked in, when she thanked him for holding the door, when he held a chair out for her at a little table. People became very interested in not staring at them, so much so that she began to think honest stares would have been preferable. Draco went up to the counter to get them each a cone and someone she vaguely recognized as having been a few years ahead of her at Hogwarts said, so clearly she could hear him, “Well, I hadn’t expected _that._ You’d think Theo would have chosen better for her, bastard or no.”

“Do people think Theo is arranging a marriage between us,” she hissed at Draco when he came back and handed her the chocolate cone.

“You know he’s not and I know he’s not,” Draco said very quietly, “so don’t worry about it.”

“That’s what you meant by ‘job interview’?” she asked and he sighed. “Am I interviewing you or are you interviewing me?” she went on, still in a hiss.

“I suppose,” Draco admitted, “you’d be interviewing me since you’re a bit more of a catch than I am.”

“What does that mean?” she demanded. “Aren’t you the Malfoy, the prince and all that?”

“Also the Death Eater,” he said, voice very low. “There are some things, some _shames_, money can’t undo.”

“So these people think I’m too good for you?” She couldn’t tell if she was outraged or amused.

“As a pureblood princess you can certainly do better,” he said. His lips twitched up in a slight smirk. “I understand Marcus Flint might be interested.”

“Those teeth,” she said with a mock shudder.

“There is that,” he agreed. “My own teeth have never garnered a complaint.”

“This is incredibly uncomfortable,” she muttered as she scootched her chair in closer to the table and people continued to look at them with sideways glances and tip heads together to whisper. “Is it like this for you all the time?”

“Welcome to life as an aristocrat on a date,” he said. “We can leave if you want.”

Hermione looked at him. The way he’d tensed his body against a blow he was just waiting for over dinner had eased and now he seemed more protective of her than anything else. She considered the people who were treating them like zoo animals, or some kind of celebrity sighting, and sighed. He’d been quite right that this was very different than going out with Blaise. This was disgusting and gross and she hated it.  
  


“Let’s finish our cones,” she suggested and he nodded.

She didn’t get really angry until he went to get them napkins. “You’re getting ice cream in your hair,” he’d said, amused, and she’d waved him off. That was when some boy she didn’t remember from Hogwarts came up and leaned down next to her ear.

“If you get tired of the failure, sweetheart,” he said, “let Theo know I’m interested too. Montague. He’ll know who I am.”

He walked off before she could respond.

When Draco got back, napkins in hand, she stood up to meet him and murmured, “I’m sorry about this,” before leaning her body into his and brushing her lips against his.

He stood very still, then asked, “Decided to brand me yourself?”

“I want to go now,” was all she said. “We can finish the cones as we walk.”

She glanced over to where the boy – man really – who’d approached her was watching them. Draco followed her look and narrowed his own eyes. “Did that arsehole say something to you?”

“Only that he was interested,” Hermione said. “I think I’m supposed to be flattered.”

Draco made a show of dabbing the ice cream out of her hair. “Thus the kiss,” he said.

“I’m sorry,” she said again but he wrapped an arm around her.

“Don’t be,” he said very quietly. “He was out of line approaching you like that. And I’m… don’t apologize for kissing me.”

“That prick called you -.” She stopped. “I didn’t care for the way he dismissed you.”

Draco looked at her and she tried to understand what was going on behind those grey eyes but he’d shuttered them against her. “Why don’t I walk you home?” he said.


	8. Chapter 8

“What’s the matter?” Theo asked for the third time as Draco slouched against the wall. He’d come over, insisting everything was fine. He did this every few months and Theo would tease the problem out of him and then they’d get incredibly drunk together and try to forget the problem, the history of problems, everything.

They tried to forget everything.

“She’s nice,” Draco said at last.

Theo shook his head and tried to follow. “Who’s nice?” he asked.

“Your sister,” Draco said. “Hermione. She’s _nice_.”

“And?”

“And I am not nice.” Draco banged the back of his head into the wall. “She’s nice and kind and stupidly brave and manipulative and perfect and I’m me and she kissed me.”

“You kissed my sister?” Theo considered whether he should just start the drinking portion of the evening now.

“No,” Draco said. “She kissed me. In public. Tonight.”

“In the Thai restaurant?”

“No,” Draco said again. “I can’t use words much smaller than this, Theo. In _public_. Real public.”

“Shite.”

“Don’t hurt me,” Draco muttered but Theo was just running his hands through his hair as he contemplated the problem Hermione might have created.

“Did anyone see?” he demanded.

“I think that was kind of the point,” Draco said. “Montague said something to her while I was getting napkins and when I got back she just… kissed me.”

“Did she say why?” Theo asked.

“Something about how she didn’t like the way he’d dismissed me. She _apologized_ before she did it but, yeah, she knew people could see.”

Theo pulled a bottle of firewhiskey out and poured himself a shot then, looking at the glass, made it a double. He poured another one for Draco and left it on the counter before sinking into his couch. He raised the glass towards his friend and said, “It’s a good thing I like you.”

“Why?” Draco asked.

“Because we are, apparently, going to be family, my friend.”

“I’m not good enough for her,” Draco muttered, grabbing the drink. “I’m not putting a… I’m not going to hold her to that. She didn’t know. Doesn’t know. Doesn’t even listen when I try to tell her what being seen with me means much less -”

“Welcome to dealing with Hermione,” Theo said with a shrug that only mostly hid his ongoing worry about her obstinacy on this issue. “She cares about the ‘pureblood crap’, as she puts it, exactly not at all and I spend all this time fretting she’ll end up doing something that… I’m pretty good at dueling but I’d rather not, you know? You may be a total arse but at least I can trust you with her.”

“Still not good enough,” Draco said, draining his glass and refilling it.

“Not arguing with you that you aren’t good enough,” Theo said, “Hell, that’s the one sensible thing you’ve said about her since I told you she was my sister, but she’s gotten all ‘defend Draco’ in public so it’s probably just a matter of time; she’s got a weird thing for underdogs. Don’t screw this up, though, because, if you break her heart, I will go after you.”

“She barely likes me,” Draco said, “and I’m a fucking prince, Theo. I’m no underdog.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Theo said. “Come get drunk me with because I want to blot out my future with you as my brother-in-law while I still can. And then I can hand her over to you and let _you_ be the one to worry all the time about what she’ll do while I just enjoy being a brother.” He paused before adding with not a little malice, “and an uncle.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione chewed on the quill for almost 20 minutes before she finally sighed and wrote the note, tied it to the owl, and sent it on its way.

_It’s your turn to choose the restaurant. _

She sat and stared out the window after the owl as if a reply would return instantly. This seemed like a really bad idea.

And yet.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Blaise,” Draco said, fishing through the cupboards for a hangover potion. 

“Above the cups,” Blaise said, not even looking up from his magazine. “Did you know there are forty-seven erogenous zones on a woman’s body?”

“What the hell are you reading?” Draco muttered as he located the potions. “I need a favor.”

“I’m not pointing them out to you,” Blaise said. “I’ll help you find the hangover potions and you can borrow the article when I’m done, but there’s certain research you have to do on your own, without me, understand?”

“Fuck you, arsehole,” Draco said, downing the potion. “I don’t need that kind of help.”

Blaise looked up at that, eyebrows raised and said, doubt in his voice, “Well, if you say so. Seems rude to argue.”

Draco threw a glare across the room that Blaise merely smirked at. “I still need a favor,” he said and Blaise sighed.

“What do you want?”

“I need you to go on a double date with me and Hermione.”

Blaise shrugged. “Who’s the witch?”

Draco had opened the refrigerator and was peering inside. “Blaise, why do we have seven kinds of mustard, some beer, and almost no food?”

“Because we’re young, wealthy bachelors?” Blaise asked.

“Why all the mustard?”

“I rather like mustard and I’ve been trying to find the perfect one,” Blaise admitted. “I’ve been thinking of just making it. Perfection is so hard to come by but I’m thinking if I try… wait. You still haven’t told me what witch.”

“Does it matter? You’ve dated half the witches in Britain –“

“- plus several on the continent.”

“Exactly. What’s one more?”

“You’re avoiding telling me before I agree,” Blaise said, eyes narrowed, “which means you know I won’t like it.”

“Just… do this for me?” Draco said, nearly begging. “I put up with the idiot women you bring back here, clear out whenever you ask, and all I’m asking for is one date with one witch.”

“Who is it?” Blaise snapped. “What friend of Granger’s could possibly be so awful that you have to… oh no. No, no, no, no, no. Draco. No. Absolutely not. She’s Sacred Twenty-Eight. I do not date purebloods. Pureblood girls have _expectations_. They want to get mar-ried. I do _not_ want to get married. I do not want to have to deal with a girl who’ll sit the _exact_ right distance from me and who’ll somehow manage to get to every door slightly after me so I have to open it for her and –“

“You have something against holding doors for women?” Draco asked.

“No,” Blaise said, burying his face in his hands. “I always hold doors,” he muttered, “and then I go back to their flats where I hold the door and pour the drinks and get them out of their clothes and shag them senseless and you cannot do that with a bloody pureblood! You can’t kiss them. You can’t even hold their hands, for the love of Salazar, other than to kiss them very _very_ lightly on the knuckles or fingertips. You smile and ask empty questions about art and their parents and they bat their eyes and if you step one foot out of line you risk ending up with a lawyer drawing up a contract that, if you’re very lucky, won’t impoverish you.”

“It won’t be that bad,” Draco said, giving up on finding anything to eat in their kitchen and slouching against the counter.

“Bollocks,” Blaise snapped. “It will be worse.”

“But you’ll do it?” Draco asked.

“You’ll owe me,” Blaise muttered.

“If it’s any consolation she’s the one who wants to meet you,” Draco offered.

Blaise shuddered. “Oh, great. A pureblood girl wants to meet me. I can hardly wait. It’s like Yule and Valentine’s Day and Halloween all come at once.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Zombies, shuffling towards me, holding actual hearts dripping blood they want to give me as a present,” Blaise moaned. “Witches cackling as they plot my demise over candy quills and strategically placed mistletoe.”

“I’m pretty sure Ginny Weasley doesn’t want to marry you,” Draco said. “I think she might just want to shag you.”

Blaise picked up his head. “So… it could be not a date?” he asked hopefully.

“I think you’re pretty much screwed on that one,” Draco said, “Hermione and I are dating, which means you are too. Sorry.”

“No you’re not sorry. Prick.” Blaise slouched back down. “I thought you just went to some Muggle place, anyway. That’s pretty secretive; I mean, who would have seen you? I think you could claim to not be dating the witch if you wanted.”

Draco laughed. “Too late, arsehole. She kissed me. At Fortescue’s”

Blaise was up and across the room and had his forearm braced against Draco’s throat almost instantly. “She did _what_?” he hissed. “You took advantage of her, didn’t you, you little –“

“Let me go,” Draco choked out.

Blaise stepped back and held his hands up in the universal sign of ‘Although I really want to I am not reaching for my wand right now’. “You can’t do that, Draco. She doesn’t know and it’s not like Theo’s going to hold her to any little breach of public discretion anyway so whatever plan you had to trap the woman isn’t happening. Still makes you a fucking arsehole for even trying.”

“Merlin.” Draco rubbed his throat and glared at his roommate. “Theo just offered me a drink. What the fuck is your problem?”

Blaise slowly lowered his hands. “You told Theo,” he said even more slowly.

“I’m not trying to be a dick here,” Draco muttered. “Contrary to your opinion, I’m trying to be the nice guy.”

“You want to marry her,” Blaise said, “you know you do, and for all the wrong reasons. You barely even know her.”

“Do you see me marching over to Theo’s with a fucking contract,” Draco demanded.

“He wouldn’t sign it, and, even if he did, she’d fry your sorry arse before she’d get married just because her newfound brother told her to after her vast social indiscretion, one that I am one hundred percent sure she does not see as anything more than a meaningless kiss.” Blaise suddenly looked amused. “I wonder if we could sic her on your father? Let him tell her she has to marry you now and then watch her murder him. That would be fun.”

“He _is_ still my father; I don’t want him dead,” Draco muttered. “Mostly.”

“Suit yourself,” Blaise shrugged then sighed. “This double date with the redoubtable Ginevra, this is you getting to know Hermione better, isn’t it?”

“I’m trying,” Draco said in a near whisper. “I’m trying not to be the arsehole here.”

“Fine,” Blaise threw up his hands. “Double date, with a pureblood blood traitor no less. Just… set it up and tell me where to be and when.” He glared at Draco. “An owl came for you last night when you were busy being passed out, by the way. I gave the damn thing its treat and it pecked me and you owe me for that too.”

“Duly noted,” Draco said, “and, Blaise?”

“What?” the man nearly snapped.

“Thank you.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco recognized the handwriting on the outside of the scroll and looked suspiciously over at Blaise, who had returned to his memorization of whichever of the forty-seven erogenous zones he’d yet to find on his own. The man gave no indication at all that he knew who the message was from and Draco weighed the light paper in his hand as he considered whether Blaise was playing dumb or really didn’t know Hermione’s writing.

It was, he had to admit, possible that the man hadn’t even seen her penmanship. Still, Blaise was a sneaky bastard and underestimating him never worked out well.

Draco retreated to the privacy of his room before untying the scroll and, other than to mutter, “You owe me, arsehole,” as he passed by, Blaise didn’t react.

Draco read the short note once, then put up the silencing charm he used at night before reading it again and then again and yet again. He heard the wracking sobs pour out of him as he curled up on the floor, Hermione Granger’s note in his hand.

He wasn’t even sure why he was crying.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Dish,” Ginny demanded, shoving the copy of the _Daily Prophet _towards Hermione.

“There’s nothing to tell,” Hermione said, picking up the paper and scanning it. “We went out, it was fine. I… why am I in the paper?”

“I was hoping you’d tell me,” Ginny said smugly, tweaking the paper back away from Hermione and beginning to read. “_Recently unearthed Nott heiress seen kissing_ – I mean, you kissed him? Really? –_ well-known Death Eater Draco Malfoy in a popular ice cream shop. Does her brother know about this? Will we be hearing wedding bells for these two lovebirds soon?”_

“They call him a Death Eater?” Hermione nearly snatched the paper back away from Ginny. “That’s not even fair. He was _sixteen_ when they branded that thing on his arm. He was a child and they found him not guilty. This is not right.”

“So… how was he?”

“What?”

“You snogged Draco Malfoy. I want to know how he was,” Ginny leaned back and smirked as she held her coffee cup in her hand. “Also, this cup is much too big. When did this ‘serve coffee in bowls’ thing start, because I don’t like it?”

“He was mostly petrified and you have to ask for the smaller cups. They’ve got them under the counter.” Hermione was glaring at the paper. “Who just takes a photo of people on a date for ice cream and sends it in to the paper? Who does that?”

“Welcome to the Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Ginny said. “Good times.”

“This doesn’t happen to you,” Hermione objected.

“It probably would if I kissed a pureblood in public,” Ginny said with a snort. “Not that that’s an issue for me because, as you know, blood traitor. Plus, I date half-bloods and keep the snogging bit in private. And the shagging.”

“Well, thank Merlin for that,” Hermione said. “Public shagging sounds like a bad idea.”

“Why was he petrified?” Ginny asked, returning to the more interesting topic at hand. “Also, did you get him to set me up with Zabini?”

“I’m not sure,” Hermione said, her eyes going over the snippet in the society section again and again. Every time she read it she got angrier. “He’s complicated,” she finally said. 

“You like him,” Ginny observed. “Hot damn. You like him. Petrified, complicated, ferrety Malfoy.” She took a sip from her coffee and glared again at the large cup. “This I have to see in person.”


	9. Chapter 9

“So, where are we going?” Hermione asked. Draco had told her to dress casually – ‘no robes or anything’ - and now he was at her door with a small basket over one arm.

“Picnic,” he said. “Hyde Park. It’s a bit of a –“

“It’s a Muggle park,” Hermione said, her hand still on the door to her flat. “You’re taking me to a _Muggle_ park.”

“Is there something the matter with that?” he asked.

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you embarrassed to be seen with me?” she asked.

Draco huffed out an exasperated snort and just said, “Are you coming or not?”

She closed the door behind her and followed him down the hall, the stairs, and out in to the warm air. “I don’t mean to be difficult –“ she began.

“Then don’t,” he suggested.

She ignored him and went on, “but when we went out last time I couldn’t help but notice you seemed a little… uncomfortable… in the restaurant and I sort of assumed you’d pick a place more, uh, Wizarding.”

Draco stopped on the sidewalk and turned to her. “I thought you might prefer a place no one would stare at you for being a princess.”

She blinked a few times. She clearly hadn’t expected thoughtfulness; that was a bit of a stab in the gut. She was willing to go out with him again but on some level she still expected him to be an arse. All she said, however, was, “Oh. Well, it’s a nice day to be outside.”

“It is,” he agreed mildly and, neither saying what they meant or felt, they walked along through the sunshine in silence until he apparated her to a secluded area in the park and they began to spread out their lunch.

“Nice extendable charm,” Hermione said.

Draco smiled at her compliment. “That I can take credit for,” he said. “The food, however, is all purchased from a shop. I have many bad qualities, and I certainly can’t cook, but I can pick out gourmet sandwiches with the best of them.”

“Living with Blaise would tend to hone that skill, I imagine,” Hermione said.

“You have no idea,” Draco muttered. She glanced up from pulling a carton of strawberries out of the basket and, at her look, Draco said, “He’s decided to make his own mustard. Apparently there is no foo-foo mustard quite _foo_ enough for him so he’s just going to do it himself.”

“Oh, Merlin,” Hermione said. “It’s worse than the coffee. Please tell me you aren’t that much of a weird food snob.”

Draco snorted.

Hermione pulled out a copy of the _Prophet_ from the basket and set it down next to a plate of petit fours. He sighed. He’d almost burned the thing when he saw the gossip item but had decided maybe – maybe – it would get her to listen to reason about not just flailing about their world like an impulsive toddler. She rested her fingers on it briefly before saying, “I guess we need to talk about that.”

“I tried to warn you,” Draco said as gently as he could. “Theo tried to warn you. Hell, I’m pretty sure _Blaise_ tried to warn you and I think he might actually like it when his exploits get chronicled.” He sighed. “I am sorry, for what it’s worth, but…”

“Sacred Twenty-Eight,” she said bitterly. 

“It’s not a bad thing,” he protested. “It means you’re special and different and…”

“It means I can’t go out for ice cream with a man I might like without having it be in the papers,” she snapped. “That might be special and different, but hardly in a good way.”

Draco reached towards her but she had turned and was looking away from him, out over the expanse of lawn. “It means,” she continued, “I’m on display all the time, doesn’t it? It means there are arcane and idiotic cultural rules I’m supposed to follow even though every single person who cares about those rules thought I was lower than dirt just a little bit ago.” She looked back at him at that. “Including you.”

Draco swallowed.

“I’m not even sure why I like you,” she muttered, “prejudiced, arrogant git.”

“Good sandwiches?” he asked, trying to make her smile.

“I know why you like me,” she said. “I’m a pureblood princess, aren’t I Draco?”

He cringed. She’d turned the words into a curse.

“You’re also… perfect,” he said, afraid if he didn’t say something she’d leave; he didn’t know how to do this. “I can’t… don’t ask me to lie to you and say your blood doesn’t matter to me. You know it does. How could it not? All my life, Hermione, I was told that made me better. Made me special.”

“I know,” she said, sounding sad and resigned as she continued to stare out across the lawn.

“Some days I think it’s all I have,” he admitted and she snapped her head around to look at him. “But you,” he said, plowing on past that bit of exposure, “you’re brave and… you’re actually a nice person, and to me, of all people, which is not what I expected, and I’d like to get to know you as a person if you’ll let me.”  
  


“Fine,” she said.

“You don’t need to look as it you’re bracing yourself against some kind of awful task,” Draco said. “I’m really not that bad. Sandwiches, not weirdly obsessed with condiments, good teeth.”

“It’s not that,” Hermione muttered. “It’s… if we… do I have to use the word date? If we ‘date’ we can’t just go to Muggle parks. We have to… there’s some French place in Diagon Alley I hear is very good, for example, and…”

“You don’t want a repeat of the ice cream incident?” Draco asked.

“Exactly,” she said. “I need to know all your stupid rules.”

“Maybe it will be easier if you think of it as studying a different culture?” he suggested, hiding his relief. “As if you were an anthropologist. You have to play by the rules to fit in and make your observations but you still aren’t chained by them?”

“So, I’m researching my thesis on the customs of the upper magical classes?” she asked, starting to laugh a bit; he grinned back at her and, picking up one of the strawberries, handed it to her. 

“I’m a pretty decent resource for that,” he said. “I know all the rules and I have a vested interest in seeing you succeed.”

“Okay,” she said and, with a sudden burst of what seemed like pure mischief, she scooted closer to him on the picnic blanket, picked up one of the berries, and held it to his mouth. “Explain to me what happened in the ice cream shop.”

Draco bit the strawberry she held and looked at her. “You’re trouble. How did I not know you were trouble?”

“You don’t really know a lot about me,” she said. 

“Were you this much of a shameless flirt in school?” he demanded, staring at the half-eaten strawberry in her hand; she put it in her own mouth and ate the rest.

“An international Quidditch star took me to the Yule Ball at fourteen,” Hermione said. “You didn’t really think he was attracted to my potions work, did you?”

Draco had to consciously keep his mouth from dropping open. “You are… you are a manipulative little… brat.”

“I,” she said smugly, “am a pureblood princess who’s best friends with the Chosen One. Brat seems uncouth.” Draco began to laugh. “Tell me what happened in the ice cream shop.” She held another strawberry out towards him.

He bit it, swallowed, and decided that if she was relaxed enough around him to play this way he’d let a little bit of his own arrogance off the leash and so said, with a pronounced smirk, “You announced to all and sundry you had accepted my suit.”

“I _what_?!” she nearly shrieked before taking a deep breath. “You people take ice cream a little too seriously,” she said. “What will that new French restaurant signify? That we’re expecting twins?”

Draco laughed and risked holding a berry out to her. She narrowed her eyes but allowed him to feed her. “It was the kiss,” he said. “You aren’t supposed to touch anyone you aren’t related to other than a handful of very scripted social encounters and since you initiated it, well, you said ‘I own this one, he’s mine, hands off.’”

“And that means…”

“Well, it pretty much means we’re engaged.” Draco waited for another explosion but when it didn’t come he added, “Not, of course, that I’d hold you to that. You didn’t know and... and I’m just grateful you’re willing to… I’m glad you agreed to see me again.”

Hermione had started to search in the basket for something, ignoring his nervous babbling. When she pulled out a corkscrew she handed it to him, with a bottle of wine, and said, “And it wasn’t even a very good kiss.”

Draco felt himself do the gaping thing again. “What?” he asked.

“Open,” she said, pointing at the wine and then watched his flabbergasted look with some amusement. “I mean, if your whole world thinks we’re engaged because of one kiss, don’t you think it should have been a little, umm, more?”

“Come here,” he ordered, leaving the corkscrew half embedded in the cork as he set the wine to the side. She smiled at him, a manipulative little smirk that made his pulse race, and pulled herself forward on their blanket until she was almost in his lap. He put his hands on her cheeks, stopping to tuck some hair behind one ear, and then lowered his mouth to hers.

She tasted like strawberries.

Strawberries and spring and hope and he groaned into her mouth as she parted her lips and he could feel her tongue licking at him and he realized he’d slid his hands around into her hair and he was consuming her.

Was being consumed by her.

She pulled away and gasped, her teeth sinking into her lip as she stared at him. “Well,” she said at last. “That’s a bit more like it.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco had packed two bottles of wine in his not-so-little picnic hamper and they both availed themselves of the social lubricant.

Liberally.

“So what you’re saying,” Hermione said, a few hours later, “is that what I am is a cheap date.”

“This was very expensive wine,” Draco objected. “You are not cheap _at all_.”

“But I’ve gone about this all wrong. First,” she spoke very clearly, “we were supposed to, umm…”

“No.” Draco interrupted her. “First our parents have a meeting.”

“Your mother’s locked in the house and your father’s in Azkaban and my parents are both legally dead, not to mention they have no idea who I am. How would that work?”

Draco looked at her.

“Right,” Hermione corrected herself. “My mother is dead and my father is _also_ in Azkaban.” She paused and took another drink. “Should I go meet him, do you think?”

Draco shuddered and muttered something under his breath about if she did she’d have to take Theo _and_ him and maybe a lot of garlic in case the bastard had turned into a vampire which, frankly, he wouldn’t put past him. He’d never been a fan of Theo’s father and discovering the man had thrown a daughter away hadn’t made him like Nott Senior any better.

If he’d known this woman was a pureblood in school things would have been so different 

He wasn’t sure he could forgive Theo’s parents that.

He was quite sure Theo couldn’t.

“Anyway,” Hermione said, ignoring the muttering, “since we’re both effectively parentless, my loving brother takes on the role of patriarchal matchmaker and fixes us up, I take it?”

“Exactly.” Draco held a strawberry out to her and, when she went to bite it, pulled it closer to him. She made a mock hiss but shifted until she was curled up against his side, at which point he lowered the berry to her lips. “And then we go on these incredibly fun job interview dates where, other than my kissing your hand, we don’t really touch very much.”

“You use this word ‘fun’,” Hermione murmured.

Draco laughed. “I like this much better,” he admitted. “I could get used to this.”

“So then...” she prompted him.

“Then I give you very expensive jewelry to cement that we’re really planning on getting married, assuming all the background checks and legal stuff works out.”

“Eww.”

“And then we get to kiss.”

“Did I mention the ‘eww’ part of that? It’s like you’re buying me or something.”

“Only the kissing,” Draco said, rather dryly. “I purchase the rest of you with the actual wedding. We’ll leave the uni lecture on your dowry and the settlements I have to make for another day. If Theo does his job correctly, you’ll be very expensive.”

“I might actually get ill if I say ‘eww’ as many times as that requires,” Hermione said, propping herself up on an elbow and looking at him. He smiled down at her, far more sober than she was. He was shading her from the sun with his own body and he was quite sure the way the light hit him was turning all his hair into a near halo. “You’ll have to kiss the taste of that bit of pureblood grossness away,” Hermione said.

“I can do that,” Draco agreed and leaned down towards her, “If you’re sure.”

She was, indeed, quite sure.

“But,” she said, when he had pulled himself back up and was brushing hair out of her face, “it still comes back to my being a cheap date. You’re getting all this kissing without one expensive bauble.” She reached for her wine glass but Draco tweaked it away. 

At the narrowing of her eyes he said with a smirk, “You’ve already threatened to be ill. I’m protecting my rather nice trousers from the possibility you might combine wine and your feelings on pureblood customs in one unpleasant bit of self-expression.” Plus, of course, Theo would kill him – or at least hurt him – if he got Hermione too pissed. 

“I do not like that not only do all those idiots think we’re engaged because of one kiss –“

“We’ve had quite a few more than one at this point,” Draco pointed out

“A mere technicality as they haven’t been observed,” Hermione said. “If a pureblood couple kisses in a Muggle park, did it really happen?”

“I feel pretty smug about it,” Draco said, putting her description of the two of them as a ‘couple’ away to think about later, “so I think it really happened.”

“My _point,_” Hermione said, “is that they not only think we’re engaged, they think I’m _cheap_.” She paused and lay back down, this time propping her head on his thigh. “Or maybe that you’re cheap. Either way, it’s not making me happy.”

“You don’t seem all that keen on my buying you.” Draco observed. “I somehow doubt my showing up with an emerald bracelet would make you happy.”

“Emeralds?” Hermione made a mock gasp of horror. “But that’s a _Slytherin_ color and I’m a _Gryffindor_. Rubies. Needs to be rubies.” She smiled up at him again and Draco tried to ignore the way his heart caught at that happy, if somewhat inebriated, expression. 

“Rubies?” He mimed pulling his hair out. “Not doable. It must be green.”

“Red,” Hermione said with utter seriousness, “because it brings out the color of my eyes.”

“If you’re hung-over and they’re bloodshot, maybe,” Draco said with a snort.

“Diamonds?” she asked.

Draco laid a hand on her cheek. “I would like very few things more than to take you out with an expensive bauble proclaiming you as mine flashing from your wrist.” He closed his eyes and exhaled. “But you don’t mean it, so I think no.”

“So I’ll just have to go on being cheap,” Hermione said with a laughing pout. “You are _not_ a gentleman, Draco Malfoy.” She paused before asking, “What happens if I give _you_ jewelry?”

“Then you’d never get rid of me,” he said very softly. “I might actually try to enforce that custom, so don’t do it unless you want me around for the long term.”

Hermione sat up and looked at Draco, then out across the park. The shadows had started to stretch across the day. “We’ve been here for hours,” she said. “It’s getting cold; I feel like I should go home.”

“Do you want to?” Draco asked.

“Not really,” she admitted. “But… this feels fast. It feels really, really fast.”

“Come back to my flat,” he invited her. “We’ll get takeaway and move in slow motion. Blaise may be there and may be off, umm...”

“Dating?”

“That’s one word for it, yes,” Draco said.

“Speaking of Blaise,” Hermione said, “Can we…”

“Double date with your friend, yes. French? Tomorrow night? Or is that too little notice?”

“I’ll owl her from your place,” Hermione said.

Draco took her hand and kissed the tips of her fingers, a wholly appropriate gesture. “That sounds good,” he said.

** **


	10. Chapter 10

Blaise had had a fabulous afternoon. He wasn’t generally interested in role-play games but the witch he’d taken to lunch had convinced him to play naughty school girl and the prefect and, well, she’d put a lot more emphasis on the ‘naughty’ part than on the ‘school girl’ part.

“I’m not sure those shoes would have fit into the dress code,” he’d said as he’d admired the stilettos she’d added to an outfit that only vaguely resembled what girls at school had worn. The tie she’d worn, however, had been useful for a variety of things as she worked at convincing the ‘prefect’ not to take away any points or send her to detention.

All in all, a most satisfactory afternoon, and Blaise was thus in an excellent mood as he pushed open the door to his flat and greeted Draco, who, for once, wasn’t sulking but was curled up on the couch with Granger where they –

Shite.

“Hermione?” Blaise raised an eyebrow as he tried to hide his utter befuddlement that Draco had somehow talked the witch into coming over to their flat. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Park got cold,” Draco said.

“Plus,” Hermione said, “Ginny assures me that public shagging is a bad idea.” She sniffed. “I had no idea she was so consevative.”

Blaise eyed the couch with only mostly feigned trepidation. “Please tell me we don’t need to get a new couch now. I rather liked that one.”

“Like you’ve never shagged on the couch,” Draco said with a snort.

“I have not,” Blaise said, sounding – and feeling - offended. “It’s very rude to… not in public spaces you share with your flat mate. That’s disgusting and something only a Gryffindor would do.” He seemed, too late, to realize what he’d said and added a muttered, “Begging your pardon.”

“I can’t quite decide if I’m going to be insulted on behalf of my House or relieved I’m not sitting in the dried remains of your bodily fluids,” Hermione said and Draco snickered.

Blaise, however, shuddered rather dramatically. “Sometimes I do wish you’d be as particular as all the other pureblood girls.” He eyed Draco, “Speaking of which, what are you doing? You can’t just… _cuddle…_ with Theo’s sister. You can’t. It’s…. you just can’t.”

“I know, he’s terrible,” Hermione said. “And he refuses to get me a diamond bracelet. Cheap bastard.”

“My parents were very much married,” Draco objected as Blaise sank down into a chair, his afternoon ruined.

“What are you _doing_?” he asked again. “I told you to date half-bloods. Date half-bloods and you get all the good times and everyone goes home happy and no obligations. She’s a _Nott_.” Blaise nearly moaned. “Draco, you’re going to ruin her!”

“I’m not a soufflé,” Hermione said, sitting up and looking irritated. “I don’t get ruined that easily.”

“But –“ Blaise was still holding his head in his hands. “Hermione…”

“Ruined for what? Marriage with Marcus Flint?” Hermione snorted. “Bring it. Like I’d want to be the perfect princess for someone who only sees me as a blood status.”

Blaise picked his head up to give Draco a meaningful look, which the blond man chose to ignore.

“If going on a perfectly normal date with a perfectly normal man spoils me, than so be it,” Hermione said, settling back down against Draco’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her and smirked up at Blaise.

“I told you I’d get her to like me,” Draco said.

“Besides, I don’t think anyone outside your little circle of inbred obsessives cares about this crap anyway,” Hermione added.

“Speaking of soufflé,” Draco said, cutting off Blaise before he could open his mouth. “We’re meeting Ginny Weasley at Belle Reine for dinner tomorrow at seven. It’s a date, so put your pureblood manners on.”

Blaise eyed the way Draco’s hands were resting on Hermione’s stomach and snorted. “And how will you two be behaving?”

“Like the princess that I am,” Hermione said with a smirk. “And he gets no public touching until I get my bracelet.”

“Uh huh,” Blaise said. “I’m going to go to my room now and shut the door and pretend I didn’t see this. Just… holler or something when it’s safe to come out.” He stopped at his door. “Draco, when she leaves, we need to have a talk.”

“I’m in trouble,” Draco whispered to Hermione as Blaise shut his door with more vigor than was perhaps necessary.

“I had no idea you Slytherin types were such rule followers,” Hermione said. “It’s kind of sad, really. To think I’ll be the one teaching Draco Malfoy to be naughty.” She shook her head in mock exasperation. 

“I shall endeavor to be an attentive student,” he said and she laughed. There was a loud banging noise from inside Blaise’s room and Draco grinned. “He’s going to kill me,” he added.

. . . . . . . . . .

“What the bloody _fuck_ do you think you’re doing?” Blaise demanded after Hermione had gone home. 

Draco looked up at him from the couch were he was lounging, looking smug enough for three men. “Courting a princess?”

“Does she even understand what you’re up to?”

Draco tipped back the beer in his hand, took a long swallow, and then smirked up at his roommate. “Maybe she likes me.”

“Maybe you’ve manipulated her until she can’t see straight!”

“Maybe you should give her a little credit,” Draco said, taking another drink. “Or is it that impossible that she might actually like me.”

“She could barely be civil to you not so long ago. Does she even know you’re still all caught up in her wonderful new blood status, the same way the dreaded Marcus Flint is, or does she think you’ve become magically enlightened in the last week or so?”

“This might shock you,” Draco drawled, “but I’ve been honest with her that her blood status still matters to me.” He took another drink. “I’ve also convinced her to start following the damn rules so she doesn’t end up dragging Theo into one duel after another.”

“Oh yes, the girl snuggling you on our couch sure looked like a pureblood rule follower to me,” Blaise kicked a chair leg before sitting down in it. “Do we have any of that beer left?”

Draco accioed a bottle and Blaise cracked it open.

“Doesn’t count if no one sees her,” Draco said.

“_I_ saw her,” Blaise muttered but he relaxed a little bit. “You swear you’re being honest that you aren’t some fluffy Hufflepuff? That you’re not lying to her about what a godawful prat you are?”

Draco raised an eyebrow in one of his more practiced sneers. “I’m being me, Blaise. That’s all.” He let the sneer go and sighed. “She seems to like me anyway, though, no, she’s not exactly excited I care about her blood status. She’s just… she’s not making that a deal breaker.”

“Well, huh.” Blaise sounded like he didn’t quite believe it but he slouched back and sighed. “Better you than Marcus Flint, I guess.”

“She doesn’t have to marry a pureblood,” Draco said.

Blaise turned his head slowly to look at his roommate. “Well,” he said, “I guess you are changing, if only by inches.”

“Whatever,” Draco muttered, taking another drink. He looked down at his hand and wrist as if considering something and then asked, “Blaise, do you have any jewelry I could borrow? Something with rubies if possible?”

“I’m not marrying you,” Blaise said with a smirk. “Don’t think you can trap me into an understanding.”

“You’re not my type,” Draco said, “but… she’s right. She looks cheap for kissing me in public without…and for all her teasing she wouldn’t take a bracelet or something if I offered it now that she knows what it means, so…”

“Nice,” Blaise said with a low whistle. “That’s an elegant workaround. You’re just going to wear something and not say anything and protect her from the slurs that she’s… maybe you aren’t a total arsehole.” He considered his friend. “Of course, if it doesn’t work out, she’ll look like a jilt.”

“I don’t care how long it takes; it will work out. I want to marry her, Blaise,” Draco said very seriously. “I know you don’t like my reasons, but part of that goal involves protecting her from people who’d hurt her or use her.”

“I know,” Blaise sighed. “You’re doing this all the right way, you’re just… she has no idea what she’s doing and at least it’s you because I can see Montague or Flint taking advantage and then demanding Theo make good on the ‘dishonor’ she’s done them by not hauling her arse to the alter after swapping spit and thus giving them access to those Nott vaults.”

Draco took another drink. “I may be a bloody failure at life, but I’m rich as fuck. I’m not after her money.”

“Neither is she; Theo whines how she won’t take a knut. And you’re not a failure.”

“Brand says otherwise,” Draco muttered.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo grinned as Hermione flung herself after the ball and, yet again, failed to catch it. “You really aren’t good at this, are you?” he teased as she tried to peg the ball at his head.

She missed.

“Sod off, Theo,” she muttered as he tossed the ball back to her, an easy underhanded toss.

She missed.

“Give up, mate,” Ron said from the steps. “We tried for years. She’s actually impaired athletically.”

“Sod off, Ron.”

“And it makes her hostile,” Ron added.

“You don’t see me making you analyze the risks of shifting policy on international currency regulation,” Hermione snapped. “In public, no less. And then mocking you for not being able to do it.”

Ron held his hands up. “See what I mean,” he said to Theo.

Theo laughed and slouched over to Hermione and pulled her into a hug. “Sorry,” he murmured. “I had no idea you couldn’t catch. At all.”

Hermione smiled a bit maliciously as she pulled back a bit to look at her brother. She could see him tense as she saw the look on her face. “It’s okay,” she nearly cooed. “After all, you upset me with the ball thing and I’m about to upset you.”

“What did you do?” Theo demanded.

“Kissed Draco in the park,” she said, her voice as innocent and sweet as she could contrive.

“The ferret?” Ron made a gagging noise. “Why would you do that? Were you trying to induce vomiting after ingesting poison or something?”

“Ha ha,” Hermione said. “It was a date. Consenting adults have been known to kiss on those.”

Theo closed his eyes and counted to ten and reminded himself that, whatever the man’s myriad flaws were, Draco was not going to deliberately compromise any woman he saw as a pureblood. He was an elitist, prejudiced snob with self-esteem issues, but he played by the rules as he understood them and those rules excluded public snogging.

“Muggle park, I assume,” he said when he opened his eyes and looked steadily at his sister’s smirking face.

Hermione looked disappointed at his lack of reaction. “How did you know?” she asked.

“Because the ferret’s not bloody stupid enough to kiss you in public,” Ron said with a snort. “Not really. He knows Harry and I would beat him to a bloody pulp if he tried anything.”

Hermione glared at her long-time friend. “You _do_ read the _Prophet_, right?” she asked.

Ron and Theo made eye contact and then Ron said, “I knew that was your doing, ‘Mione. Probably scared the man half to death, too. Which I applaud, by the way.”

Hermione made a face. “You know all the pureblood crap _too_?” she asked, nearly whining. 

“Sacred Twenty-Eight,” Ron and Theo said in unison.

“Plus,” Ron muttered, “Lav’s really into it. She made my mother dredge up every last stupid custom she could and made me do _all_ of them.” He glared at Theo. “Who came up with the modesty one, anyway? Lav used to dress like a hot little number and now her shoulders are always covered and her skirts hit below her knees and she’s always got a hat or scarf on. I cannot wait for her to get tired of that shite.”  
  


“Underneath?” Theo asked.

“Well, under the proper little shell she’s got some – “ Ron broke off and looked at Hermione. “Not that I would know what Lavender’s knickers look like because, of course, we aren’t married yet.”

“What the bloody hell?” Hermione demanded. “Are you going to start treating me like some kind of princess too, because I might have to poison you in your sleep if you do that.”

“Such a pureblood thing to do,” Theo said. “See how well she fits in, Ron? She’s my perfect, princess sister. And look, shoulders covered, knees covered. Go to do something about that hair, though. Do you think we could get her to wear a little hat?”

Ron was nearly convulsed with laughter at the sight of how furious Hermione was. Theo looked down at her. She was wearing one of his jumpers that had shrunk in an unfortunate laundry accident and which she’d snagged, claiming that since it fit her now he might as well give it up, and a pair of scrubby trousers and she carried herself with that casual air of ease she didn’t even recognize she had; surviving a war had given her a quiet self-confidence that couldn’t be faked. She looked, Theo thought, like no one quite so much as Narcissa Malfoy dressed to work in her garden and exuded the kind of unconscious privilege that only a ratty alpaca jumper could convey. Her clothes said, ‘I have money and power and I don’t need to try to look pretty for you.’

He wondered if she knew how utterly aristocratic she appeared. She seemed far, far more like a member of the upper classes than Ron’s silly little Lavender, for all that the other woman wore designer ensembles as if her life hung in the balance of how well she matched her shoes to her bag.

“I will get you, Ron Weasley,” Hermione was promising. “When you least expect it, you’ll be sorry.” She turned to Theo. “And you,” she added, “I know where you live.”

Theo laughed but Ron shook his head violently from side to side. “Theo,” the man on the steps hissed, “Don’t laugh. It’ll just make her meaner when she finally gets her revenge.”

Theo, still holding on to Hermione, looked down at her face and, smothering his laughter, kissed her on the forehead. “Love you, sis,” he offered and she screwed up her face at him but let him pull her back into a tight hug. “I’m just worried you’re moving so fast,” he said quietly into her hair. “Draco can be a bit of a self-serving prick, you know.”

“I have known him since we were both eleven,” she said. “His flaws are not wholly mysterious to me.”

“And yet you’re going out with him, Blaise, and Ginny tonight,” Theo said, his voice worried.

Brotherly.

Hermione let herself rest against his chest and he savored the opportunity to nurture the normally stubborn witch. She sighed and let Theo lead her over to the steps. Ron muttered something about needing to help his mother do wedding planning and disappeared.

“Explain it to me,” Theo said. “You were spitting mad at him and now you’re kissing him and going out to an expensive restaurant.”

“Well,” Hermione hedged, “he’s assured me he’s disgustingly wealthy so not to worry about the – “

“As are you,” Theo said with exaggerated patience. “Doesn’t mean you head out for pricey French food in Diagon Alley with every random boy we went to school with.”

“I’m not, because none of the Nott money is mine,” Hermione said.

Theo opted not to pursue that.

“Yes, sis,” he said. “Stop dodging the issue.”

She leaned down over her knees and sighed. “He’s so… I mean, he’s awful in a lot of ways. He’s a product of his environment and I get the impression Lucius was a nightmare of a parent.”

“Has he talked to you about his father?” Theo was shocked and Hermione looked up at him, her eyes narrowed.

“Thank you for that little confirmation I was right,” she said.

Theo let out a huff of air. “Conniving,” he muttered.

Hermione grinned a little, then sighed again. “He’s so… I took him to that Thai place, did he tell you that? The one with the good green curry?”

“Blue Elephant?” Theo asked.

She nodded.

“I like that place,” he said. “Good choice.”

“He was terrified,” Hermione said. “He’s so afraid of Muggles he thought, I don’t know, something awful would happen at any moment. It was horrible to watch.”

“And you felt sorry for him,” Theo murmured. “Oh, Merlin, Hermione.”

“But he sat there,” she pressed on, “and talked to me and tried his best to hide how scared he was and all I could think was he was doing this for me. You’d said he wasn’t the worst person to have on your side and, I mean, I know it was ridiculous to be afraid of that place, but he didn’t and he was facing it down for me and, Merlin, it sounds so stupid when I say it out like this but – “

“But you saw that he’d walk into hell for you,” Theo said, “even if he has some totally fucked up ideas of what hell is. Damn him. Why couldn’t he have just been an arsehole?”

“You’d prefer that?” Hermione turned her face up and grinned at Theo.

He sighed. “And then you went and defended him in that damn ice cream shop and if he hadn’t been mad for you before, he was after that.”

“Some person named Montague wanted you to know he was interested, by the way, on the off chance I got tired of the, and I quote, loser.”

“He’s interested all right,” Theo muttered, “interested in your fucking dowry.”

“I do not have a dowry,” Hermione said. “This is not 1723 or something. You do not have to pay some cretin to take me off your hands.”

“No,” Theo agreed, “I’m pretty sure Draco’s going to do it for free.”


	11. Chapter 11

Ginny and Hermione had arranged to meet their dates at the restaurant. “It eliminates any concern we might be alone with them,” Ginny said with a snort. “We wouldn’t want to risk compromising our precious selves.”

Hermione, thinking of how she’d apparated home from Draco’s flat the night before with a swollen mouth and damp knickers, was fairly sure she’d already been compromised quite thoroughly and snorted herself. She’d gotten dressed at her own flat and then come to Ginny’s to hang out while her partner in crime got ready, a bag of last minute prep tools in hand so she could do her hair with Ginny’s help. 

“I know,” Ginny said as she settled a dress over her hips. “It’s absurd. Heels, you think?”

Hermione eyed the way the black dress swirled around Ginny’s knees and said, “Absolutely. You’d look dumpy in flats with that.”

“Agreed,” Ginny said, “but this offers easy access for post-date playtime, plus it’s technically all pureblood proper with the length and the cap sleeves and all.”

“Given Blaise thought I would be ruined by hanging out in their flat, you may have a hard time convincing the man to slip his hand under that skirt, no matter how easy you make the access.” Hermione shoved another pin into her hair in an attempt to corral it into a chic updo. “I need easier hair,” she muttered. “Why can’t I get it to behave?”

“Ruined?” Ginny snickered. “Like milk you leave out too long? And your hair is fine. You’re just paranoid about it.”

“Apparently.” Hair mostly managed with a few determined sticking charms and a lot of pins, Hermione began to poke through Ginny’s pile of makeup. “Do you have a lipstick in a deep red I can use? I think I don’t like the pink I picked anymore.”

Ginny fished through the disorganized heap and pulled a tube out and handed it over. “Try that.”

Hermione uncapped the tube and applied it to her mouth with care. She studied the results until Ginny said, “That color looks better on you than on me. You should just keep it,” at which point she dropped the lipstick into her bag.

“I am really looking forward to watching Blaise figure out how to deal with you,” Hermione said as she settled back and watched Ginny clip a sparkling decoration into her hair. “You’re going to blow his patriarchal little mind.”

“I thought you liked Blaise,” Ginny said.

“Oh, I do,” Hermione acknowledged. “He’s just… you’ll see. You’re a pureblood good girl who’s not. He’ll be confused as hell.” She picked up the quirky hat she’d brought with her and began trying to attach it to her pinned up hair with reasonable success; it even pushed the last few curled tendrils into something resembling obedience. “There,” Hermione said, studying her reflection. “It’s as if I meant it.” 

“Look at us,” Ginny smirked. “Knees covered – “

“Technically,” Hermione said.

“- and heads covered.”

“If that thing you have pinned to your hair counts as covered, sure.”

“Technicalities count,” Ginny smirked. “And fuck-me heels to top it all off.”

“Because nothing says modest good girls like these,” Hermione said as she grinned down at her feet. “I better not have to walk very far, though.”

“We _are_ magic,” Ginny said smugly as she stood up and slipped her feet into her own heels. “We can just apparate.”

“And I can get Draco to rub my feet afterward as we sit shamefully unchaperoned in his flat. Or my flat. Maybe you and Blaise will be busy christening their flat.”

“A girl can dream,” Ginny said. “Shall we? If we leave now we should have the timing right that they’ll be waiting for us.”

“Lead on,” Hermione said. “Let’s go make the pureblood boys squirm with how very proper we are.”

“Maybe you’re proper,” Ginny grinned. “I’m just a poor blood traitor who likes my men pretty.” She paused for a moment. “Squirming’s always good, though.”

“And making you squirm?”

“Also good.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise huffed out a breath and leaned up against the wall outside Belle Reine. “Why are pureblood girls always late? And how did Hermione learn this weird little rule?”

Draco shrugged as he twisted the heavy gold ring he’d borrowed from Blaise. The size of the ruby made the thing a bit gaudier than he normally went for but at least it couldn’t be missed. 

“Stop fiddling with that thing,” Blaise muttered. “You’re making me antsy.”

“I’ve never seen you this nervous before a date,” Draco smirked. “She’s just another girl, Blaise.”

“She’s not,” the man muttered. “She comes with baggage. Pureblood baggage, and, unlike you, I don’t like all that shite.”

“Your just as bound by it as I am,” Draco said. “If you weren’t you wouldn’t have had a bloody heart attack I brought Hermione back to our place last night.”

“She’s Theo’s sister,” Blaise hissed. “You can’t just… holy fuck.”

Draco looked down the street to where Hermione and Ginny had just appeared. Hermione had opted for something a tad more discreet than Ginny but… “Damn,” he said as he watched the pair walk toward them. Somehow they’d managed to check off every rule of how you had to dress to be properly modest while still looking not the slightest bit dowdy or, for that matter, modest. Daphne Greengrass, who his mother had referred to as a ‘nice girl’ often enough to make him nervous, never seemed to manage to cover her shoulders and knees without also looking like a convent girl out for a stroll with a ruler-wielding governess two feet away from her. 

“If this is how you instruct a girl to dress to be a good girl, I’m a fan,” Blaise breathed.

“We never covered the clothing thing,” Draco said. “I mean, you know Hermione. She’s always kind of… she’s not a trampy dresser. It didn’t seem… just… damn.”

“I don’t think you’re allowed to say that,” Blaise said, eyes still on the ginger girl walking towards him. “Are you _sure_ she’s a pureblood? I really can’t touch? That seems unfair.”

By then Ginny and Hermione had reached them and Draco had taken Hermione’s hand in his and kissed her knuckles. “I hope we didn’t keep you waiting long,” she said. “Ginny, this is Blaise Zabini; I’m not sure you two knew each other at school but he was in my year. Blaise, this is my friend Ginevra Weasley.”

Blaise took her hand and brushed his lips across her fingertips. “I’m delighted to meet you,” he said. “I cannot tell you how I’ve looked forward to this evening.”

Ginny smiled at him over her hand until he realized he was still holding it and dropped it with ungainly haste. “Shall I get the door?” he asked.

Hermione flinched as a camera flash went off near them. “Do you think we’ll get above the fold or below the fold?” Draco murmured near her ear as she walked past him and into the shadowed restaurant.

“I could suck you off under the table,” she said in an almost bitter undertone that only reached him. “That would guarantee us above the fold.”

“Indeed,” he acknowledged as Blaise gave the _maitre d__'_ their reservation name and the man led them to a table tucked into a discreet corner where two walls and a fairly large ficus shielded them from most curious glances. “But don’t you think that would be a little rude to our friends?”

That coaxed a smile to her face and he held out her chair for her as Blaise did the same for Ginny. Ginny scootched her chair in closer to the table and leaned on her elbows in blatant disregard for all things mannerly and smiled as Blaise tried with almost total success to keep his eyes on her face. “I’ll just let you order for me,” she said. “Hermione tells me you are quite the food aficionado.”

“I… yes,” Blaise said. “I… so I understand you play Quidditch?”

“Not professionally,” Ginny said, “but it keeps a girl in shape to stay active. I like to keep my endurance up.” She smiled at him across the table.

Blaise was rescued by the sommelier who approached and asked if they had any questions. Blaise did not, but he did engage the man in a few rapid questions about the vintages they had readily available and put in a request for a champagne that he assured the table was, “truly excellent.”

“I can only assume that means it’s also jaw-droppingly expensive given it’s you who picked it out,” Hermione said and Blaise blew her a kiss across the table.

“You know me, only the best will do,” the man said.

“Nice ring,” Ginny said to Draco, who was still twisting the heavy gold band. 

His flush was evident even in the dim light but all he said was, “Thank you.”

Hermione looked at him, a long, measuring look that he returned with only an enigmatic smile and that flush.

“Draco,” Blaise said, “has apparently discovered a hitherto untapped vein of nobility running far, far beneath the surface of what I assumed was his shallow soul.”

“He’s a good man,” Hermione said and Ginny eyed her before turning her attention back to Blaise.

“Are you?” the ginger girl asked.

Blaise looked confused. “Am I what?” he asked.

“A good man,” Ginny said.

“I prefer to think of myself as wholly shallow,” Blaise said. “All I need is good food, good alcohol and good – “ He cut himself off. “Good friends,” he said at last. “But then, unlike the rest of you, I’m not Sacred Twenty-Eight so the pressures on me to be a proper little aristocrat are a tad less.” He smirked a bit. “And, of course, my mother has no interest in my bringing home a good girl. So long as I stay out of her way, she stays out of mine.”

“You haven’t answered whether you’re good or not,” Ginny said. “A woman likes to know these things.” She shrugged. “I suppose I can just find out the hard way.”

Blaise gaped a bit but was yet again rescued by alcohol as the champagne he’d selected was presented to him and he nodded that, yes, that was the one he’d wanted and the sommelier opened it and poured a small amount into his glass. He tasted it and said, “Excellent, yes,” and the man filled Hermione and Ginny’s glasses, then Draco and Blaise’s.

Draco lifted his glass and said, “To our beautiful dates.”

Hermione smiled at him and Ginny raised her glass towards Blaise. “To finding out whether ours are good men.”

Blaise nearly choked on his champagne.

Ginny sipped from her flute and said, “This is excellent. I hope the dinner you pick for me is as good as this.”

“I shall certainly try not to let you down,” Blaise said.

“Do you like flying?” Ginny asked, adding, “I love riding a broom,” as Draco leaned over towards Hermione.

“Is she always like this?” he whispered. “This is wonderful. I’ve never seen him so off balance. He’s usually the smuggest man alive.”

Hermione laced her fingers into Draco’s under the table. “Want to make a bet on how long it takes her to get him into bed?” she whispered back.

“One week,” Draco said as Ginny licked a little champagne off her lips and Blaise stared at her.

“I say tonight, and you’re on,” Hermione said.

“What do I get if I win?” Draco asked. 

Hermione licked her own lips and looked at him and it was his turn to look off balance. She smirked. “What do I get if I win?” she asked.

“Something appropriate for a man to give his pureblood girlfriend,” Draco said with a smirk as he tried to regain control of the conversation. “Flowers. Or candy. Or –“

“Huh. Cause I was thinking of a blow job if you won but if you’d rather have candy…” Hermione trailed off and smiled at him. 

“You are so much trouble,” Draco muttered. “And I think we can go with your idea. I can get candy for myself.”

Ginny stopped flirting with Blaise and glanced over at them. “Are you two supposed to sit that close,” she teased. “I might think you’re up to something.”

“Maybe we are,” Hermione said, keeping her hands under the table and smirking until Ginny laughed in obvious delight.

Blaise paled. He and Draco exchanged glances and Draco picked Hermione’s hands up and set them on the table. “Are you _sure_ she’s a pureblood,” Blaise demanded as he watched Ginny lean back in her chair and grin at Hermione. “I know Hermione grew up on the wrong side of the tracks so she has an excuse, but shouldn’t Miss Weasley here be a little more… pure?”

Ginny put her hand over her heart and said, “Surely you aren’t suggesting – “

“No,” he cut her off in horror lest she think he was accusing her mother of infidelity and he get a visit from one of her many brothers ready to defend the woman’s honor. The Weasleys might not really participate in many of the conventions but you just never knew when someone would decide a line had been crossed. Better, by far, to play it safe and treat her like fragile glass. “You’re just… very different than, say, the Greengrasses or Pansy or, well, any other pureblood girl I’ve ever met.”

Ginny shrugged. “I’m a blood traitor. Did no one tell you?” She patted his hand. “I’m sorry. Going out with me might besmirch your reputation.”

“Not possible,” Draco said.

“You’re still…should we order?” Blaise asked as the waiter approached them. 

“Why don’t you be all manly and just take care me?” Hemione said to Draco who gave her one of his carefully blank looks.

“I’ll do that,” he said.

The waiter explained the day’s specials but, despite the man’s recommendation they try the perigord truffle risotto, Blaise ordered the lamb and duck leg confit. “We can share,” he said to Ginny.

“Feeding me,” she nearly purred. “Isn’t that a little forward.”

Blaise said, struggling to find the right response to the date he was quite sure he wasn’t allowed to touch. “I find I am putty in your hands, Miss Weasley.”

“Oh, I don’t want you to be soft like putty at all,” Ginny said. 

Blaise passed their menus back to the waiter and gulped.

“Soft shell crabs for the lady,” Draco said, ignoring his friend’s distress. “I’ll try the risotto.”

“Very good choices,” the waiter said.

‘Help me,’ Blaise mouthed across the table at Draco who just shrugged and asked Hermione whether she’d had a nice day. The two of them chatted about the afternoon Hermione and Theo had spent with the Weasley clan and Lavender’s decision to follow every last traditional custom she could unearth and how that was driving Ron round the bend while Ginny continued to drop as many double entrendres into the conversation as she could.

“You know,” Draco said to the information about Lavender, “I never liked that girl but the discovery she’s making Weasley nutty makes me warm to her.”

“Good,” said Hermione, “because you’ll have to be my date to their wedding in two weeks.”

“Wait, what?” Draco said, flute of champagne halfway to his mouth.

“We _are _dating, right?” Hermione said with a lift of her brows. Draco glanced at Blaise and then nodded, a slow smile warming his face. “I mean, officially and in the papers and everything.”

“Yes,” Draco said. “I’m sure we can all look forward to yet another item in the paper tomorrow, thanks to that photographer as we came in.”

“Then I suspect it might be out of line for me to take someone else to their wedding as my plus one,” Hermione said. She paused as if considering, “Though I’m pretty sure I could get Dean to go with me.”

“Dean Thomas?” Ginny asked. “He’s lovely. He gives a great foot rub, as I recall. Among other things.”

“Good to know,” Hermione said, “I mean, assuming Draco here doesn’t work out.”

“You will not take Dean Thomas as your date,” Draco muttered. “I forbid it.”

“Then you’ll go with me?” Hermione asked and held her flute towards Draco for him to refill. He poured her more champagne and settled the bottle back into the ice bucket as he looked at her.

“Your date at a pureblood wedding with as many traditions as Lavender-bloody-Brown can shove into it?” He couldn’t quite contain a smug grin. “Should we just send our own announcement into the papers?”

“I think that can wait,” Hermione said with an almost quaint primness.

Blaise made a strangled sound. “Hermione,” he choked out. “I don’t think you should take Draco to that wedding.” At her politely curious look Blaise muttered, “You just… why can’t you take Theo or something?”

“Theo has his own invitation,” Hermione said with a sweet smile. “And isn’t it a tad more… normal… to bring one’s significant other to these things.” She picked up her newly filled flute and idly spun it beween her fingers. “Do purebloods not bring people they like to weddings? I could ask that Montague fellow if the custom is to bring people whose company you’d rather avoid; it seems a peculiar way to do things but Merlin forbid I don’t fit in.”

“Stop being difficult,” Blaise said. “I just don’t want you to… it’s a serious type of date, that’s all.”

“Maybe I’m serious,” Hermione said.

“I just don’t want you to – “

“Put a bunch of pureblood noses out of joint, I know,” Hermione said with a dangerous glint in her eye.

“No,” Blaise said. “I was going to say, I just don’t want you to break Draco’s heart. He’s had a rough enough time without that.”

Hermione stilled.

“I am sitting right here,” Draco said with obvious annoyance. “You don’t need to warn her off, Blaise. I am actually quite capable of scaring people away without your help.” He took Hermione’s hand, the ruby on his own flashing even in the dim candlelight. “I would be delighted to go to this wedding with you. Thank you for asking me. Or telling me.” 

Hermione let Draco hold her hand their fingers entwined, until the food arrived. He smiled at her after he took his first bite of the risotto. “This really is excellent, you have to try it.”

He held his fork towards her and fed her a bite and she made a face of rapt appreciation and a slight moan as he slid the fork away. “More,” she said greedily and moved her chair to sit right next to him and he offered her another forkful, then another. She cut her crab into small pieces and offered some to him and the two sat there sharing their meals until, the food gone, she was leaning her head onto his shoulder and they were running their fingers in and out of one another’s.

“Is she always like this?” Blaise asked Ginny as they ate. “She doesn’t act like this with me at all.”

Ginny snorted. “She’s been a flirt for years, not that Saint Harry ever noticed because, as much as he loves her, he still thinks of her as some kind of genderless walking encyclopedia, but this is the most love struck I’ve ever seen her since she sicced birds on my brother in school in a fit of jealous rage.” She smiled at Blaise. “I, of course, am not like that at all.”

“Of course not,” he said politely. “You are, I’m sure, a perfect model of decorum at all times.”

“Are you always this uptight?” Ginny demanded, putting down her fork. “You have a reputation that suggests otherwise and you’re certainly pretty to look at but if you’re just going to kiss my fingers and keep a minimum two foot distance between us at all times I’m not going to keep wearing the uncomfortable shoes for you.” She paused and then added, “or the black lace knickers.”

Blaise muttered something about purebloods and duels and her brothers and Ginny laughed. “If one of my brothers decided to try to battle you because I’d gone and let you hold my hand I’d put him in the ground until he begged for mercy.” She slipped a foot out of one of her heels and began sliding it up his calf as he began, very slowly, to smile. “If it makes you more comfortable, we can go to my place. It’s in a very unfashionable neighborhood. No photographers looking for gossip stories, no purebloods to see you with a blood traitor and judge you.”

“It’s not that,” Blaise sounded offended for the first time.

“You don’t care my family has eschewed pureblood traditions?” She asked, her foot continuing to climb his leg. “Because you do seem awfully enamored of them.” Blaise lowered his own fork and dropped his one hand to his lap where he captured her foot and began caressing it, decision obviously made. “The traditions, I mean,” Ginny said, her voice squeaking a bit.

Hermione looked over from where she had her head on Draco’s shoulder. “You okay, Gin?” she asked.

“She’s fine,” Blaise said. “Would you like dessert, Miss Weasley?”

“I’m getting dessert,” Hermione said. “I think coming to a place like this and not getting dessert might be a sin.”

“Sin?” Blaise raised his eyebrows.

“Muggle thing,” Hermione said. “Something very bad, has religious connotations, breaking societal taboos. Sin.”

Blaise, one hand on Ginny Weasley’s foot in his lap and another on the stem of his champagne flute, said, “And how does giving up indulgent food count as this ‘sin’ thing?”

“It… oh, never mind,” Hermione said. “Too many layers of cultural explanation to wade through.”

“It is tricky to explain all these things when you don’t have context, isn’t it?” Draco said and Hermione gave him a quelling look that made him laugh.

“Will you teach me to ‘sin’,” Blaise said to Ginny, watching her smile.

“I can try,” she murmured.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Teach me to sin-- / In love's forbidden ways, / For you can make all passion pure; / The magic lure of your sweet eyes / Each shape of sin makes virtue praise.” From Enthralled by Alfred Bryan


	12. Chapter 12

Narcissa Malfoy still took the papers. That she couldn’t leave the Manor and that her husband was in Azkaban was, in her view, no reason to wallow or let herself disconnect from the world.

She read the first account in the gossip column of Draco’s indiscretion in the ice cream shop and waited for him to tell her about it. When he didn’t, she owled a friend to get more information on this so-called ‘Nott princess.’ Theo had been an only child; what adventuress was this and how had she gotten her hooks into both Theo _and_ Draco? When Posy Parkinson confirmed that Harry Potter’s wretched little Mudblood from Hogwarts had turned out to be Theodore Nott’s full sister (“A bastard, of course,” the woman had written, “but the silly boy has taken her in for all that.”) Narcissa had set the note down and considered.

A powerful witch, that Hermione Granger.

A powerful witch with connections to Harry Potter and the Weasleys who, distasteful blood traitors that they might be, were currently the heroes of the realm.

Most importantly, she was a _pureblood_ powerful witch with connections.

Narcissa considered again the public indiscretion of kissing the girl. Clever of her son, she decided, if a bit forward. He’d managed to claim the girl as his before the inevitable packs of wolves started snapping at her heels.

She didn’t adjust her opinion he was clever when she saw the photo of him, holding a door for the girl - who was wearing the most darling hat - a substantial ring glinting on his hand. She didn’t believe for a moment that the girl had given him the token; Narcissa was fairly sure she’d seen Blaise wearing that ring before and she doubted the gaudy thing was to either Draco or the girl’s taste. Still, it was well done of him and, given the way the girl was smiling up at him in the photo, Narcissa didn’t think it would take long before an actual understanding was in place between the pair. 

Clever _clever_ Draco.

His father would have been so pleased with the boy. It was a pity she couldn’t write to Lucius in Azkaban and let him know that Draco had finally settled into his heritage instead of wallowing about feeling sorry for himself.

It was a trifle awkward the girl had been tortured in the family home. Still, they hadn’t known she was a pureblood. Narcissa smiled. The girl would understand. She was better now, worthier. She wasn’t a disposable Mudblood anymore; now she was a true princess being courted by a prince. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco kissed Hermione’s fingers, a wholly proper greeting, and held out the chair for her at the little patisserie. She was getting better at hiding the way she wanted to roll her eyes at the traditional courtesies and just thanked him as he ordered her some tea and croissants.

Give him a little more time, he thought, and he might even get her to like being doted on this way.

“It’s lovely to see you this morning,” he said. “A bright spot in my day before I deal with my mother.”

The teapot and croissants appeared almost instantly and Draco thanked the waitress and poured for both himself and Hermione.

“I thought you and your mother were close,” Hermione said as she spread a napkin on her lap and batted his hand away from the milk. “I _can_ prepare my own tea. You needn’t wait on me quite that much.”

“Any confirmed news on Blaise and Ginny?” Draco asked, not responding to her comment about his mother. He did love his mother but he was dreading telling her about Hermione. He returned to the much less fraught subject of their mutual friends. “Not that I have a vested interest in the state of their relationship or anything.”

Hermione poured milk into her teacup and began to stir it. “No news. You live with the man. Did he come home?”

“He did,” Draco acknowledged. “And he muttered something about ‘this witch will be the death of me’ before stomping off to his room.”

Hermione smirked. “That’s my Gin,” she said. “He’s so doomed.”

Draco smirked back at her as he ripped his croissant into pieces. “It does suggest, however, that they might not have consummated their divine and perfect union last night, which means you lost our bet.”

Hermione kept a wholly innocent look on her face. “We had a bet?” she asked. “I’m sure if we did the stakes were appropriate for a princess like me.”

Draco narrowed his eyes and then laughed. “You are really evil. I think, my dear, sweet love, that you might have been mis-sorted at school. You are much too sneaky to be a lion.”

Hermione paused for a moment and Draco froze when he realized what he’d called her. All she said, however, was “Theo said much the same thing. I think you all overestimate your own deviousness and underestimate mine.” She nibbled at her pastry before adding. “Not that I’d stiff you on the bet, of course.”

Draco licked his lips, almost involuntarily.

“Though,” she added, “I don’t recall we had any kind of time frame spelled out.”

“Did I mention you were evil?” he asked.

“I think you did,” Hermione said. She fussed with her napkin and Draco watched her. “I was thinking about something I said the other day, about going to meet my father.” She looked up and bit her lip. “Do you think I should?”

“Probably not,” Draco said, already knowing she would and that he’d have to go with her. “He’s in prison, a brutal prison. I’m sure he’s in rough shape and I know that’ll… he threw you away, Hermione.” He reached out and grabbed her hand. “If he hadn’t done that – “

“I’d have grown up in the same kind of messed up, lousy home you and Theo had,” Hermione said very softly. “I got the good family, Draco. But I think I want to meet him; I think I need to.”

“I hate him for what he did to you,” Draco said, his eyes on her scar. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco Flooed into the Manor and brushed soot off his trousers. His mother was waiting for him, papers spread out across a table in the library. He opted to ignore the obvious question for a moment and simply kissed the woman’s cheek.

“You look lovely today,” he complimented her. “There’s more colour in your face than usual. Have you been getting out into the garden?”

“Thank you, dear.” Narcissa waved him to a seat and he smiled at her as the perfect tray with the perfect arrangement of tea things appeared in front of him. “Would you pour?”

“Of course.” As Draco poured and prepared his mother’s tea he smiled at the thought of Hermione batting his hand away from the milk just that morning. His mother, of course, would no more bestir herself to pour her own tea than she would to scrub her own toilets. Thank Merlin the woman had house elves. Hermione, he knew, would probably insist on freeing any house elf who came within twenty yards of her. She’d be flinging socks and hats at them as they dodged and fled in terror.

“You look happy,” his mother observed. “New ring?”

“One of Blaise’s,” Draco said casually. “I borrowed it.” He smirked. “Don’t worry, though, Blaise and I won’t be sending an announcement into the paper anytime soon.”

Narcissa sniffed. “I’m well aware you like girls, Draco. And, even if you didn’t, you’d do things properly and marry a suitable girl, have an heir, and then set up a friend in a flat somewhere.” She sipped from her tea. “And I hardly think that friend would be Blaise as his preference for girls is quite public.”

“Indeed,” Draco said as he stretched his legs out and leaned back. He regarded his mother. “Are we going to fence all afternoon or can we simply talk about Miss Granger?”

“If you want to talk about her, Draco, I am of course willing to listen.” Narcissa took another sip from her tea. “I was quite surprised, at first, to see you paired with her. I had to do a little discreet questioning to discover she was a bit of a lost heiress. I take it she hasn’t embraced her true surname?”

“I do think that, though Theo has had her declared legitimate, she is planning to honor the family that raised her,” Draco said, finding himself unexpectedly annoyed at the description of Nott as Hermione’s ‘true’ surname.

Thoros Nott and his lovely wife had tossed the girl aside, thrown her away into a Muggle world. They didn’t deserve being acknowledged as her parents. 

Of course, if they hadn’t been her parents, she wouldn’t be worthy of him.

Draco forced a smile onto his face as his head began to pound at the contradiction. “Until she gets married, of course.”

“Of course,” Narcissa agreed. “Your father would be proud of how well you’ve handled her, handled this unexpected little windfall. The ring is a nice touch.”

“Well, making my father proud has always been a goal,” Draco said, trying to hide his displeasure at her assessment. “How happy I am to have finally accomplished it.”

“Don’t be snippy, Draco,” his mother said. “It’s unbecoming. Tell me what the girl is like?”

“Does it matter?” Draco asked. “She’s Theodore’s full sister, legitimate now. She’s Sacred Twenty-Eight without a scandal to her name, not to mention Harry Potter’s best friend.”

“A bit cold of you,” Narcissa observed, “but, in essence, correct nonetheless.”

Draco shrugged in his seat. “She’s quite marvelous, really. Witty. Charming. Beautiful. She and Theo adore one another, did at first sight as far as I can determine. If I put a toe out of line, I think he’d have his wand at my throat.”

“As well he should,” Narcissa said with obvious approval. “Not that you would, of course.”

“No,” Draco agreed. “She’s worth doing this properly for.” He sighed as he looked at his mother. “I wish she’d been… I wish I’d known what she was when we were in school. I was… unkind, and rather frequently.”

Narcissa waved this confession away with a delicate motion of her perfectly manicured hand; Draco observed that she’d either trained an elf to do her nails or found someone willing to make house calls even to the imprisoned. His mother was unimpressed by even his faint expression of regret. “Now that she’s in her proper sphere, she’ll understand. It’s unfortunate, of course, that you teased the girl, but she can hardly have expected you to be polite to a Mudblood. She’s clearly decided to forgive you.”

“She has,” Draco admitted, “though I admit I’m not sure why.”

“You’re a Malfoy,” his mother said, as thought that explained everything.

“I don’t think that was an argument in my favor,” Draco said rather dryly. “I think she’s given me a chance in spite of that rather than because of it.”

“You are as a prince, my dragon,” his mother said. “Don’t forget it even in the throes of wooing this girl.”

“This princess?” Draco asked.

“If she weren’t, she wouldn’t be good enough for you,” Narcissa said.

“Well, she’s certainly that,” Draco said. “Smart, pretty, clever as can be.” He sighed. “Of course, she was all those things when I was calling her names.”

“You thought she was a Mudblood,” Narcissa said. “It was hardly like you thought you were bothering anyone who mattered.”

“She was the same girl,” Draco said, rubbing his aching head. 

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise watched Draco open a beer and drain half of it in one long drink.

“My mother only thinks Hermione is worthwhile because she’s Theo’s sister,” Draco said, nearly growling. “I’ve been reminded that anything nasty I said to her doesn’t count because I thought she was worthless at the time.”

“You did,” Blaise said.

“Well, I was a fucking arsehole,” Draco said, slamming the bottle down. “Fuck, my head hurts after spending the afternoon with my mother. She made me admire her peonies. She told me she’d changed the carpet that Hermione bled on when my aunt tortured her so she shouldn’t be uncomfortable coming to the Manor. She offered to let me go through her jewelry. Like I’d give Hermione anything that woman had owned. I’ll buy her something new, something that isn’t tainted with generations of that kind of loathsome, idiotic…”

He stopped and looked at Blaise who was leaning up against the doorframe and laughing. 

“What?” Draco demanded. “And, by the way, have you screwed Ginny Weasley yet?”

“Nice,” Blaise said. “Have you screwed Hermione yet?”

Draco scowled but took another swig from him bottle and said, “Point taken.”

“Which point? The one that you’re an idiot or the one that you’re crass?”

“Oh, fuck off,” Draco snapped and, grabbing his beer, he retreated to his room and slammed the door.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Hermione dragged her toes through the grass and listened to Lavender debate her seating chart again. The woman had spent an hour worrying out loud and in great detail about whether she could seat people who didn’t know one another together and Hermione was starting to contemplate the virtues of elopement when Lavender said, “Of course, Hermione’ll be alone so I can just slot her in where – “

“I’m bringing a date,” Hermione interrupted her.

“Did you and Theo decide to come together?” Lavender started flipping through her R.S.V.P. cards. “I didn’t even think to check your card, I just assumed you’d be alone what with any date you bring being pretty much a announcement of its own.”

“And why would that be?” Hermione asked, though she knew what the tiresome answer was.

Lavender shot her an annoyed look. “Why do you insist on fighting this? You’re a Nott. Act like one.”

“You know,” Hermione said, looking back at her bare feet, “Just because you want to be a little aristocrat doesn’t mean I want to.”

“You don’t get a choice. You are who you are,” Ron said from the window. “Or so I’ve been told. Repeatedly. This apparently plays into canapé choices, the cake, and even her shoes.”

You just checked off ‘guest’,” Lavender said, pulling out the card and ignoring her fiancé. “Hermione, if you aren’t really bringing anyone let me know. It matters for the seating plan.”

Hermione sighed. “It’s Malfoy. I’m bringing Malfoy.”

Lavender dropped her quill then scrabbled to pick it up. “Like, in the papers? That’s _real_?”

Hermione bit her tongue as she continued to look at her feet. The grass was browning in the heat of the summer and the dirt had turned to a kind of powdery dust at the foot of the stoop. She moved her foot back and forth and stirred the dirt up into a small cloud. 

“Hermione,” Lavender was nearly shrieking. “Do you have an understanding with Draco Malfoy?”

Hermione didn’t look up; she just shrugged and kept moving her toes through the dirt. “Ask Ginny. She went out with us last night.”

“She won’t tell me anything,” Lavender was nearly whining. “Hermione, it’d be the marriage of the century. A Nott and a Malfoy.”

“A Granger,” Hermione said. “I’m a Granger.” She looked up at Lavender. “I’m who I was before, Lavender.”

“No you’re not,” Lavender said, waving her quill in the air. “It’ll be the biggest wedding… Merlin, it’ll be at Malfoy Manor. I’ve always wanted to see that place. They only open it to the public once a year and…”

“I’ve seen enough of it,” Hermione said very quietly. “And so have Ron and Harry. I wouldn’t look forward to any summer outings to admire Mrs. Malfoy’s gardens on a public day, Lavender.”

“But… Malfoy,” the woman said nearly helplessly. “Draco Malfoy. He’s…”

Ron pushed open the door and stepped out onto the worn porch, three glasses of lemonade in his hands. He set them all down on the table and Lavender shrieked as one of them left a ring on her seating charts. Ron rolled his eyes and moved it to the side, then picked up the other two and settled on the steps next to Hermione.

“He’s a self-important prat,” Hermione said, leaning back on her hands and turning her face to the sun. “He’s prejudiced and seems to think I can’t pour my own tea.”

“You just adore him, don’t you,” asked Ron as he handed her a lemonade.

“I do,” she admitted as she took the chilled glass from him. “I really do.”


	13. Chapter 13

Theodore Nott, last scion of his House, son to a Death Eater, wealthy and powerful member of the elite, looked at his best friend in impotent, albeit amused, exasperation. “You’re going to the Weasley wedding together,” he said. “I don’t recall you bloody well asking for permission to marry her, Draco. Does the expression putting the cart before the horse mean anything to you?”

Draco eyed his friend. “Theo, may I have permission to marry your sister?”

Theo laughed as he sank down onto a chair. “Yes,” he said. “Arsehole.”

“I wouldn’t recommend telling her that you gave your noble permission as the head of her ancestral House for her to marry me,” Draco suggested. “That might piss her off.”

“Might?” Theo snorted. “I assume by ‘might’ you mean ‘absolutely would.’” He sighed. “Or she might choke to death because she’d be laughing so hard. Having a sister turns out to be harder than I thought it would be.”

Draco laughed at that. “Still glad?” he asked.

“Gladder than I ever was of anything in my life,” Theo said. And he was. His longed for sister. His to care for, his to watch over. His to tear his hair out over as he watched her try to figure out how to juggle all the codes of pureblood life without losing herself in the process. Every week she quietly adopted another one of the customs he’d followed so long he didn’t even think about them anymore, didn’t even see them half the time. When he’d offered her his arm outside a shop and she’d taken it without thinking he’d leaned in and whispered, “It’s like you were born to it.” 

“Technically, I was,” she’d said with a grin.

“You plan on letting me give you your share of the Nott money anytime soon?” he’d asked, expecting her to say no.

Instead she’d frowned and said, looking uncomfortable, “Maybe. There’s something I want to get and the quality… I’ll need your help making sure it’s appropriate anyway and –“

“Done,” he’d said. 

When she’d tucked the final simple, exquisite purchase he’d helped her select into a pocket he’d hugged her tightly. “Are you sure?” he’d asked.

“Do you think I shouldn’t?” she’d asked.

He’d looked down at her, touched beyond what he knew how to express that she was asking his advice, trusting him to give it.

“If you’d let me pick,” he’d said quietly, “if it had been a hundred years ago and I’d been expected to choose for you, this is the choice I would have made.”

Now he looked at that choice. “I’ll be… Salazar, Draco. If you two really are… and you aren’t just clinging to her as an available pureblood like the utter prat you can be... Nothing would make me happier, you know.”

Draco didn’t answer, just turned his back on Theo and sighed. “She wants to go meet your father,” he said. “Her father.”

“Of course she does,” Theo groaned. “Should we introduce her to yours while we’re at it?”

Draco shuddered.

“You’re going to have to tell her about him, you know,” Theo said. “Eventually.”

“He never laid a hand on me,” Draco said.

Theo didn’t say anything.

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco ran his fingers through Hermione’s hair as they sat in her flat. She’d settled herself at his feet while he sat on the couch as she read the paper and he twisted and untwisted her curls one at a time.

She’d invited him over for breakfast and after eating they’d both hovered uncomfortably until she’d asked if he wanted to stay for a bit and he’d nearly fallen over himself to say ‘yes’. The discovery she liked to have her hair played with had given him something to do with his hands and an excuse to touch her. Her periodic sputtering and hissing over things in the paper had kept him smiling.

Hermione Granger had opinions.

Most of those opinions would have horrified his father. She supported creature rights. She loathed the ‘lack of representation’ creatures and Muggle-borns had in the Wizengamot. “All the power is held in the hands of a handful of families,” she’d finally exclaimed, nearly throwing the paper aside after reading though another article on politics. “If you aren’t a pureblood you can’t do _anything_ to effect change. _Nothing.”_

Draco tugged on one curl. “Do I need to point out the obvious here?” he asked.

“Oh, shut up,” she muttered.

“All the little games you don’t like evolved to keep power firmly in our hands,” Draco said, ignoring her. “_Your_ hands. Play by all the rules, at least on the surface, and you can do all the things you want, change all the things you want. The Malfoys have a seat in the Wizengamot. The Notts have a seat.” He paused. “The Grangers do not.”

She made a frustrated sound and turned and looked up at him.

Draco firmly repressed the mental image the sight of her sitting at his feet, her face at his knees, thrust into his brain.

“Quidditch scores,” he muttered.

“What?” she asked.

“Never mind,” he said

She pulled herself up onto the couch and curled into him, running her fingers over the ring he still had on. “I think I’m doing a reasonably decent job of pretending to follow the rules,” she said. “This pureblood crap, I don’t know how you stand it.”

He sighed. “It’s all I have,” he said. “It’s all I am. I mean, unless you want to dwell on the ‘Death Eater’ thing, which I prefer to try to forget.”

Hermione furrowed her brow as she looked at him. “Is that really what you think? That you’re… that you’re just your stupid Sacred Twenty-Eight thing?”

Draco took her hand. “What else am I? Without what you keep calling this ‘crap’ I’m just… nobody. A failure with a nasty Mark on his arm.” He looked away from her. “Someone who was never good enough.”

He felt her hands on his face first, and when he let her turn him back towards her she was studying him. “Draco,” she said. “That’s not true. You were one of the best students in our year at school, you’re braver than you think and you’re loyal and… and you’re a lot of really good things.” She let herself smirk at him for a moment. “You’re pretty to look at, too.”

He shook his head in her hands. “I let them brand me and then I couldn’t even – “

“You couldn’t kill a man in cold blood?” Hermione was the one who shook her head now. “You think that counts as a _failure_? You were a child brought into a war by adults who should have been protecting all of us. So was I. We did what was in front of us. It was terrible. It doesn’t make you terrible.”

“I let them brand me,” he said again, helplessly. 

“And I –.“ She stumbled over what she was going to say and started again. “And I like you anyway.”

“I just don’t know why,” Draco said as he looked at her.

“It’s not because you’re some pureblood prince,” Hermione said, her hands still on his face. “It’s because you’re… you’re Draco. You’re thoughtful, and you’re bloody bound and determined to protect me whether I want you to or not, and you make a mean cup of tea and… you’re just you. I like you. You listen to me complain about politics and you… I like being around you.” She snorted. “It’s certainly not because I think your ancestry is extra shiny and special.”

She sat back and looked at him and Draco fought the urge to rub at the Mark covered, as always, by long sleeves.

“I don’t suppose,” she said, “you’d be interested in violating more pureblood customs and kissing me in some ways that are definitely off limits?”

“I could do that,” he said, and did.

As he probed her open lips, as he nibbled and licked and sucked at her neck, as she pulled off her shirt and he unhooked her bra and found out what noises she made when he lay her down along her couch and mouthed her nipples until she squirmed under him and he had to think about Quidditch again lest the friction push him over the edge like a boy of fourteen, as he did all these things he tried not to think about how a woman who dismissed his pureblood inheritance as unimportant had said she liked him anyway, liked the man, not the family, not the power, not the prestige. 

If he thought about that too hard he’d start crying against her skin and he didn’t want to explain that. He wasn’t even sure he could.

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo looked at Adrian Pucey and tried not to laugh. “So… you’re asking my permission to court my sister?” he asked again.

Pucey seemed a bit nonplussed at Theo’s evident amusement. “You know my bloodlines are good,” he said, “And my vaults are substantial. I’m not asking for permission to marry her, just to court her and see if she finds me acceptable.”

Theo tried not to roll his eyes. Pucey had taken entirely the wrong approach. His bloodlines might be technically pure but he was no aristocrat and there was no way he could compete with the Notts for wealth. Marrying Hermione would increase the man’s holdings substantially and they both knew it. He could have at least pretended to find her beautiful or interesting.

“I’m afraid you’re a bit late,” was all Theo said. “Draco Malfoy already has a fairly exclusive understanding with her.”

“You aren’t really going to countenance that, are you?” Pucey made a face. “He was a Death Eater, Theo.”

“He’s also been my best friend since childhood,” Theo said, a warning note in his voice.

“He also tormented her for years in school,” Pucey said. “At least I didn’t go around calling the woman ‘Mudblood’ to her face.”

“And what is it about her, now, several years after your own graduation, that makes you suddenly find her so appealing?” Theo asked.

Pucey looked at him as if he’d lost his mind. “The same thing your buddy Malfoy finds appealing. She’s a young, available, reasonably attractive member of the Sacred Twenty-Eight. That she comes without a hovering mother is, I admit, a bonus. I briefly courted Daphne Greengrass and her mother is a harpy.”

Theo’s fingers twitched with the urge to take out his wand and hex the man in front of him. He only restrained himself because Pucey hadn’t – technically - done anything wrong. “Well,” he said, “Unfortunately, as I mentioned, she and Malfoy have an understanding and, if you were to violate that, he would be justified in drawing on you. As would I.” 

Adrian Pucey shrugged. “Well, if she decides she can do better than a Death Eater, I certainly wouldn’t hold her jilting the man against her.”

“I’ll bear that in mind,” Theo said, false smile on his face. If Hermione decided she wanted to date that prick, he decided, he’d take her on a lovely tour of someplace far, far away until she’d changed her mind. He couldn’t believe Daphne Greengrass hadn’t pulverized the condescending arsehole and reminded himself to congratulate her on her ‘conquest’ the next time he saw her. She’d step on his foot with one of those stilettos she wore but it would be worth having to heal a broken bone or two to twit her about tolerating Pucey for more than one date. 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Adrian Pucey?” Blaise made a face and raised his beer bottle towards Theo in a mock salute. “Better you than me. Merlin. That guy’s such an arsehole. Thank Salazar I don’t have a sister to look after.”

“There’s been at least one inquiry about her every few days since word got out,” Theo said glumly. “If I had half as many women interested in me as she’s got men, I’d never be lonely.”

Blaise took another swallow. “Didn’t realize you were lonely. I can introduce you to –“

“No thanks,” Theo said. “I’m a little less interested in one night stands than you are.” He paused and considered. “A sentence which could describe everyone, I admit, but I’m still not interested in taking some half-blood out just to get laid with no strings attached.”

“Have you told Hermione about all the men slavering at her heels?” Blaise asked.

Theo laughed at that. “Hardly. Do _you_ want to tell her she’d got all the single pureblood men in Britain following her every move?”

“Bet you never thought you’d be grateful she was dating Malfoy,” Blaise smirked. “And you’re her brother. It’s _your_ job to tell her what a popular lass she is.” He took another swallow of his beer. “I’m just the happy-go-lucky not-a-date friend who meets her for coffee.”

“If I get really lucky, maybe she and Draco will traipse off happily into the sunset and she’ll never need to know about Pucey. Or Flint. Or those Selwyn cousins. And there’s so many more. I mean, did you even know Thorfinn Rowle had a nephew?” Theo shook his head. “Do you have any more of that beer?”

Blaise nodded and accioed a bottle. “Are you sure you don’t want me to introduce you to someone?”

Theo sighed. “You know, I find I’m not any more interested in being chased for my bloodline than Hermione is. If there were a girl who didn’t care about blood and family and money and all I’d be interested, but that’s not likely to happen.” He shrugged. “Sooner or later I’ll marry some nice girl who is as indifferent to me as I am to her and make the Nott heir.”

“Hermione could do it.”

Theo snorted. “You think Draco would let me adopt one of their kids as my heir? Really?”

Blaise slouched back. “You poor aristocratic bastards. Thank Merlin I’m merely rich and spoiled with no need to go out and court some girl with an impeccable family tree.”

“How’s Ginny Weasley?”

“Shut up.”  
  


. . . . . . . . .

“Who are you in love with this month?” Hermione asked Harry on their regular ice cream meet up. Unsure of what pureblood customs she might be violating she’d eschewed their usual hug and, with a sympathetic grin, he’d made a show of kissing her fingers. Now they sat and she plunged a spoon into her dish and waited for him to moan about whatever girl he was currently mad about.

Harry tended to latch on to some woman, obsess about her wildly, date for about a month, and then they’d break up. She kept waiting for someone to ignore his awkward suggestion that maybe things weren’t working out. Harry needed someone both pushy and stubborn who could ignore his constant fears anyone close to him would die.

Someone pushy, stubborn, able to ignore his neurosis, and comfortable handling the unpleasant publicity that came with going anywhere with the Chosen One. She’d gotten better at looking up for the camera and smiling now that she and Draco were nearly stalked no matter where they went but it was a nuisance and one anyone who dated Harry had to put up with.

“I’m not in love with anyone right now,” Harry said was he ate his own ice cream. “I’m not even bringing a date to the wedding.”

“Katie?”

“Said she liked me but that I was too much work.”

“Hannah?”

“Engaged to Neville.”

“Ah. I’d forgotten about that.” Hermione licked her spoon and dipped it back into the whipped cream.

“How about you? In love with anyone this month?” Harry asked with a bit of a smirk.

She sighed. “Very funny.”

“Are you?”

Hermione made a face and took another bite of ice cream before she answered. “I… it’s complicated,” she said. “He’s tricky.”

“He’s Malfoy,” Harry said. “You expected him to be easy?”

She snorted at that. 

“Seriously, Hermione,” Harry said. “No one’s that much of a prat at eleven if didn’t have a shitty life somewhere.”

“I know,” she stirred her spoon through her dish. “He won’t talk about it. Won’t even… I know Theo’s dad – my dad – wasn’t exactly a candidate for parent of the year but I get the impression Lucius Malfoy was a real horror.”

Harry looked at her across the table and they both paused as they thought about the Malfoy patriarch. “Can you imagine?” Harry said, “That monster as a parent? He gave Ginny a possessed book _on purpose_. He threatened me. Threatened Dumbledore. Can you imagine _living_ with him?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’d rather not,” she said. “I suspect you can, though.”

“All too well,” Harry muttered. “Never thought I’d think I had anything in common with Draco-fucking-Malfoy but, just, yeah.”

“Me,” Hermione said. “You two have me in common.”

“For real?” Harry asked. “Do I have to invite him to pick-up Quidditch on Saturdays?”

Hermione shook her head. “I’m not sure he’d go. He told me he can’t play in any rec leagues, no one wants him on any team.”

Harry squinted at her, then took his glasses off and made a show of polishing them. “He doesn’t like Quidditch anymore?” he asked.

“I didn’t say that,” Hermione said quietly. “He’s just not welcome anywhere. Death Eater and all that. You know how it is with the public judgment.” She took bite. “Remember when we were ‘dating’ according to the _Prophet_ and Molly was all snippy at me? It’s like that, I think, but worse because he really did take the Mark.”

“He was a bloody kid,” Harry said and Hermione could hear the slowly growing anger behind his words. “He was found not guilty. Voldemort threatened to kill his mother, for Merlin’s sake.”

“Well,” Hermione shrugged. “You know how people believe everything they read. He’s an evil Death Eater and therefore need not apply. You might find out that other people you play with don’t want him there.” She took another spoonful of her dessert. “It’s nice of you to think of it but you don’t have to invite him to play on my account.”

Harry looked at her. “You planning on keeping him?”

“Probably,” she admitted. “I think so.” She sighed. “Yes.”

“Then he plays Quidditch with us and anyone who doesn’t like it can go hang.”

Hermione blinked away the burning at the edges of her eyes but Harry saw the moisture glint anyway.

“I love you, you know,” he said. “And I trust your judgment. If you like Malfoy this much then he’s got to be more than the prick I knew.”

“He is,” she said very softly. “Thank you.”


	14. Chapter 14

Thoros Nott had become accustomed to Azkaban. The food was terrible, most of the inmates half-blood and peasant scum, and he didn’t care for the drafts. Still, he had become accustomed to this life and didn’t expect surprises.

When he was told his son had come to visit and had brought a girl with him he shrugged. Theodore visited irregularly but with sufficient frequency that a visit did not count as a surprise. The boy generally arrived with as many comforts as he was allowed to bring into Azkaban and thus Thoros had accumulated blankets and books. Notts protected family even if that family had been handed a life sentence to prison.

“He’s got some blond kid with him too,” the guard said as they walked to the visitor’s area. “Boy’s so pale you’d think he’d never seen the sun.”

“Probably Draco Malfoy,” Thoros said. “Lucius’ boy.”

The guard made a rude noise. No one liked Lucius Malfoy. Thoros, pragmatic to the end, had become a model prisoner. He read. He was polite. He shared the Muggle fags Theo brought him. Lucius sneered at the guards and openly insulted their ancestry. Sometimes Thoros wondered how the man had gotten sorted into Slytherin.

“Well, he didn’t file a request to see Mr. Malfoy,” the guard said, his tone making it clear that anyone who didn’t want to see Lucius couldn’t be all bad.

Thoros found himself interested. 

Theo was standing next to a bushy-haired girl he didn’t recognize. Some continental pureblood, he assumed, here to be presented to the father of the man she’d be marrying. Thoros smiled. You could lock the paterfamilias up in prison but the good sons would still bring their brides for inspection. It was unfortunate he’d not be able to give the couple some token of his approval; his own father had given him a cottage in the Cotswalds suggesting that “a young couple can sometimes want to get away from the world for a few days.”

He hadn’t thought about the time he’d spent with his love in that cottage for years. 

After the pregnancy – after the baby – she’d never wanted to go back. They’d put that time behind them and moved on. He’d eventually obliviated her at her own request; when Theodore had been born she’d been overjoyed her first baby had been a boy. An heir.

Funny how he hadn’t thought about that in so long.

He looked at that heir now, and the girl at his side, then over at the third visitor who was, indeed, Draco Malfoy. Thoros had never cared for Lucius’ son even though he and Theo had long been friends. He’d always considered Draco to be a craven bully, desperate for his father’s approval and utterly lacking any kind of backbone. Now the man lounged up against the wall in the visitor’s room, some substantial ring on his hand, radiating an aura of menace.

The boy had finally grown up. Well that was interesting, Thoros supposed. 

“Theodore,” Thoros said as he sat down in the hard chair. 

“Father,” Theo said. “I’ve delivered some tokens of my esteem; once the staff is done checking them for contraband and making off with whichever things they like the most they should be delivered to your cell.”

“Very kind of you,” Thoros said. “Might an old man ask who is this lovely girl at your side?”

Theodore pulled out a seat for the girl and she flashed him a gracious smile before taking it. The boy stood behind her, almost hovering, and regarded his father for several long moments before he said, voice unusually controlled, “I’d like you to imagine my surprise when I received an owl that a girl I’d known at school had recently discovered she had been adopted and was, in truth, my sister.”

Thoros controlled his startled response. He hadn’t thought about his poor bastard daughter in years and now, the very day he’d thought about her, Theodore was bringing her up. He looked at the girl in the chair.

“Not your fiancé, then, I take it,” was all he said.

“No,” Draco drawled from where he was leaning. “While purebloods do tend to be fairly comfortable with marrying cousins, I think taking a full sister as a wife might make some people raise their brows in polite distaste.”

Thoros looked at Draco. “Your fiancé?” he asked.

Draco tipped his head politely. “Not yet,” he said.

Thoros looked at the girl. “What’s your name?” he asked. “We called you Asteria but I’m sure your adoptive parents gave you a different name.”

“You left her with Muggles,” Theo nearly hissed, unable to contain himself. “She was raised by _Muggles_.”

“Hermione,” the girl said. 

“Helen’s daughter?” Thoros smiled. 

“She’s Monica now,” Hermione said, her voice tight. “Helen Granger is, for all intents, dead.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Thoros said. “They seemed like nice people.”

“They were _Muggles,”_ Theo said again.

Thoros looked away from this girl – his daughter – and into his son’s furious eyes. “I had to protect your mother from scandal,” he said, voice level. “She would have been ruined. My own father would have withdrawn his consent to our marriage. You, Theo, would never have been born.” He let a little anger of his own creep into his voice. “I protected my future wife and our House.”

“At the expense of your daughter,” Draco said from the wall.

“We found her a good home,” Thoros said, almost snapped the words. “She was raised by people who wanted a baby and who loved her.” He looked back at the girl, at Hermione, at his little Asteria, and asked, “They did love you, didn’t they?”

“They did,” she acknowledged. “They were so proud when I turned out to be a witch.”

“She thought she was a _Mudblood_,” Draco said and Thoros frowned at the language. Trust Lucius Malfoy to raise a son who spoke like that when ladies were present. 

“Draco’s word choice is poor,” Theo said, noting the frown, “but he’s quite right. And with the Dark Lord – a man you served – fixated on killing all the Muggle-borns it was worse than just letting your child be raised a third-class citizen. She could have been killed.” He exhaled. “She nearly was, more than once.”

Thoros looked at his daughter, searching for some kind of resemblance and not seeing any. “I didn’t realize,” he said. “I’m very sorry, child. I hope you can forgive me.”

“She bloody well _can’t_,” Draco Malfoy snapped. “Or she shouldn’t.” He nearly growled something under his breath that sounded like, “Damn fool probably will, though. Fucking heart like a damn Hufflepuff.”

“Did you miss me?” Asteria – Hermione – asked him. Thoros thought of how furious he’d been at himself when he realized he’d flubbed the contraceptive spell. How worried he’d been that he’d ruined everything because he hadn’t had the self-control to double check it had taken before he’d just flung himself headlong into the pleasures of the flesh. How the baby had always been a mark of his failure. He’d done as well as he could by her. Duty would have demanded that even if he hadn’t loved the baby against his will. He hadn’t left her on some orphanage’s doorstop. He’d found her good parents but, no, he hadn’t missed her or, at least, not for long. He’d been glad she was gone. Glad that she hadn’t ruined everything after all.

In the time he didn’t respond the girl saw the answer in his face.

Her own hardened.

Not that much of a Hufflepuff, then.

“Do you plan to introduce her to Lucius?” Thoros Nott asked Draco, not allowing the calm courtesy in his voice to waver. “It is traditional, after all, to formally present one’s chosen bride to one’s father. I’m sure he’ll be more than pleased to learn you’ve found a pureblood girl to wed. As I recall, he was concerned you lacked proper respect for your heritage.”

“My father’s opinion of Miss Granger is of no import to me at all,” Draco said. “Especially since he can’t possibly know anything more about her than that she’s your daughter. It’s hardly enough to base any kind of judgment on.”

“Still,” Thoros said. “He would be pleased to meet her. You did tend to rattle on about her when you were younger. He’ll be happy to discover your fascination clearly stemmed from an unconscious recognition of her true value.”

“Hermione,” Draco’s voice was low and dangerous. “Let’s go. I won’t have you sitting here insulted this way.”

She pushed back her chair and Draco stepped forward for the first time, his arm out for her to take. He gave Thoros a look of utter contempt as the girl rose and took his arm.

“Don’t be so quick to judge, boy,” Thoros said. “You, I’m sure, want to protect her from every possible slight. I wanted to protect her mother the same way. What would you do to keep her from being despised by everyone who matters?”

Draco looked down at him. “She’s already been despised by everyone I thought mattered and she did just fine.”

He walked the girl to the door and, before closing it behind them, said, “Theo, we’ll be in the main office. Please don’t cut short your visit on our account.”

Left alone with his son, Thoros sighed. 

“How could you?” Theo demanded, his voice finally ragged. “How could you not tell me I had a sister who was probably considered a Muggle-born? I would have found her. I would have protected her during the war. She was _tortured,_ for Merlin’s sake. I would have hidden her.” His voice broke. “I would have kept her safe.”

“I didn’t think,” Thoros admitted.

“And if you’re remembered her,” Theo asked. “Would you have taken steps to keep her safe or just hoped no one ever found out?”

“I’m not sure,” Thoros said, thinking of the baby he’d handed over to the Muggle couple, thinking of having to obliviate that baby’s mother to stop her from crying every night. 

Thinking of the hard-eyed girl on Draco Malfoy’s arm.

“Will you bring her back to visit again?” he asked his son.

Theo looked at him. “That’s up to her,” he said.

. . . . . . . . . .

Blaise sprawled half on top, half to the side of Ginny Weasley, sated – nearly exhausted, to be honest - after sex that had been more than athletic. “You are just trouble,” he said, as he ran his fingers through her hair. “Damn, this colour,” he said. “It’s so damn beautiful. _You_ are so damn beautiful.”

Ginny laughed as she peered at him through her lashes. “You are not hard on the eyes, either. Hermione told me you were pretty, but she doesn’t know the half of it.”

They’d come back to his flat after another perfectly courteous date designed to not arouse any attention while ensuring neither of them had to cook. She’d admitted she adored his sheets. “You,” she’d said, “are insanely overindulgent with basically everything up to and including thread count and I love it.”

Now they lay on those rumpled, sweaty and very much in need of a good wash sheets and he admired her as he said, “I do tend to avoid sleeping with any pureblood girl who is both related to one of my best friends and on the verge of an understanding with my flat mate so, no, she’s not seen quite as much of me as you have.”

“You,” Ginny said, “tend to avoid any pureblood girl, no matter who she’s related to. You, my sweet, have issues.”

“I don’t,” Blaise objected, still sifting her hair between his fingers. “I simply respect your status.”

Ginny snickered. “Is respect what you call it?”

“Well,” he admitted, “I’ve not been especially traditionally respectful to you but you haven’t seemed to object.” He nuzzled her neck. “Are you objecting?”

She pushed him off of her and then sat up, swung a leg over, and straddled him. “I am not objecting,” she said. “I have no more interest in a proper, pureblood marriage than you do, no desire to be chronicled in that tabloid we call a paper, no desire to delicately hold up my wrist so people can ‘ooo’ and ‘aww over whatever bauble you’ve purchased to put an official leash on me. All these customs are such a load of antiquated crap. I can’t believe Ron’s so pussy whipped he’s letting Lav make him do them all.”

“I can,” Blaise said.

“What?” she asked, eyes narrowed.

“Nothing,” he said. “What about Hermione? How do you think she’s handling the ‘antiquated crap’?”

Ginny sighed. “She’d probably be ignoring all of it but she had to go and fall for Malfoy.”

“What’s that mean?” Blaise was the one who looked peeved now. Draco might be a prat and a frequently sullen flat mate but he also woke screaming most nights and, like all their friends, Blaise quietly drew a protective circle around the man.

“Just… you know how she is. Lost kittens. House elves. My brother. She’s drawn to the needy like a moth to flame.”

“House elves are more spiteful than needy,” Blaise muttered.

“Well, she did kind of miscalculate there, I admit,” Ginny said, admiring the contrast of her hands against his chest. “But… she’ll go full-on pureblood if it makes the man feel happy and safe, you know? Because she can tell he’s afraid to just tell the fuckers to sod off.”

“He is,” Blaise admitted in a low tone, “but he has good reason to be.”

“I figured as much,” she said. She leaned over and brushed a hand over his lips. “How about you? Are you really as terrified of putting a foot out of line as Draco is?”

Blaise laughed and kissed at her fingers. “I’m wary of your brothers showing up and ordering me to marry you but, other than that…” he paused and considered before he spoke again. “Other than that,” he said, suddenly very serious, “I just want to protect you from the joys of being chronicled in the press. I’m not the official aristocrat you or Theo or Draco are, but the two of us out together behaving… inappropriately… would garner comments and you would hate that.”

“I’m no aristocrat,” she said with a snort. “I have the burden of working for a living, in case you hadn’t noticed, and there’s the whole blood traitor thing.”

Blaise shrugged. “I didn’t make up the damn list of who belongs at the top of the social hierarchy. I’m not on it, despite my perfectly pure blood, and I am free of your work thing.”

“This is why I make you pay for dinner,” Ginny observed.

“As if you could stop me,” he scoffed. 

She pressed her lips against his. “You’re not only pleasant to look at, you’re a sweetheart, Blaise Zabini,” she said, “And I think I want to be on top this time.”

“Thank Merlin,” he said with a grin, “Because, honestly, I don’t think I have the energy to do more than lie here. You’re… you have really good endurance.”

. . . . . . . . . .

When Draco got Hermione back to his flat he could tell she was trying not to shake. The tie casually draped over Blaise’s doorknob made his eyes widen and a slight smirk cross his face, but he just pulled Hermione past the couch and into his room and when she made a small protesting noise he said, “You may want to break down without having to worry about Blaise walking in on you. This’ll be a little more private.” 

She just wrapped her arms around herself and stared at his wall. He hovered, nervously, not sure whether he should hug her or talk to her or let her be. For all his life was bound on every side by rules and customs and Ways Things Were Done, something his mother said so often he always imagined it capitalized, there was no guide on how to comfort your girlfriend when she met her birth father and he was a perfectly reasonable prick.

“Thank you,” she said at last and that was so unexpected he just stared at her even more. “For defending me,” she added. “For… for saying it wasn’t okay to base an opinion of me on nothing but my blood status.”

At that he did pull her into an embrace and they stood in his room, silently, as she didn’t weep and he didn’t talk and he just held on to her.

“I’m sorry I thought it,” he said at last. “I was a fucking arsehole.”

“You weren’t,” she said against his shoulder. At his snort she amended herself to say, “Well, okay, you _were_, but you were that way because it was all you’d ever been told.”

He tightened his grip on her. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you for giving me a second chance despite what an utter shite I was.”

She settled down onto his bed, pulling him with her, and he was just breathing in the scent of her hair when she said, “Draco, when are you going to talk to me about your father?”


	15. Chapter 15

Blaise hadn’t expected to come back from showing Ginny home to find Draco pacing in their living room. The man looked paler than usual and based on the collection of empty bottles on the table he’d been slamming back beer since Blaise had left. 

Every bottle had had the label peeled off and shredded into tiny pieces.

The bottles were lined up and Blaise knew if he pulled out a ruler they would all be identical distances from one another. The pile of shredded labels was as meticulous as such a pile could be.

Drinking, worrying at the labels, and obsessive tidying of unimportant things. Shite, Blaise thought. This was bad. This was really, really bad.

“Did you leave any for me?” was all he asked as he crossed the room.

“She asked about my father,” Draco said, pointing at the kitchen. “Flat out asked when I was going to talk to her about that… she probably wants to _meet _him. Her own bloody rat bastard of a father asked when I planned to formally present her as if my father’s opinion on my bride would have any… I do not care what that prick thinks of me. Or her.”

Blaise watched Draco’s fingers pick at the label on the bottle in his hands and didn’t say anything but just went and got a beer for himself and leaned up against the counter as he opened it. “Bride?” he asked. “She’s agreed? That was faster than I expected.”

Draco shook his head. “She… I haven’t even asked but you know that’s what I… that’s always been my end game and… it’ll happen.” He took a long drink. “I… I can’t tell her about him. Can’t tell her what it was like. Can’t even explain it. If he’d hit me or something there’d be a thing I could put my finger on and say ‘that’s why it was awful.’ But he was just a… I don’t want him to see her. I don’t want her in the same _room_ as him. I don’t even want her in the same room as my _mother_.”

“Your mother has opinions about blood status,” Blaise said, his voice neutral. “As did you.”

“She changed the _rug_, Blaise. She thinks somehow that makes everything better. Sorry my sister tortured you, we thought you were worthless at the time. Oops. But I made sure you won’t have to look at the bloodstains so it’s all better now.”

Blaise nodded. “Is that what she used to do for you?”

“Essentially.” Draco walked over to the window and glared out at the world. “Oh, daddy killed your dog because you weren’t good? Look, honey, I got rid of the doghouse so you won’t have to see it and here’s a new broom. Why don’t you go for nice fly? That always makes you feel better.”

Blaise closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “You need to tell her, you know,” he said at last. “That woman loves you, damned if I know why. She’s not going to walk away from you because of Lucius.”

“I thought he’d be proud of me,” Draco said softly. “Youngest Death Eater ever. And all I did was fuck that up too.”

“You have to tell her,” Blaise said helplessly thinking he needed to get Granger alone and warn her. 

. . . . . . . . . .

“Why are we going to a Muggle spice shop?” Hermione asked as Blaise dragged her into Muggle London.

“Mustard,” he said. “And we can get a nice cup of tea at a little shop that’s right there. They have scones worth doing murder for, I swear.”

“Uh huh.” Hermione let him pull her down the street. “That no one we know will see us can’t possibly have any bearing on your choice of tea shops, right?”

Blaise looked as innocent as he could. “They just have good scones, Hermione. You are always so suspicious of my motives. It’s unfair, really.”

“Uh huh.” She held off on saying anything else as he showed her into a shop that had more varietals of cinnamon than she’d known existed. He ignored her from the moment he walked in the door to argue with the proprietor about some obscure spice thing that seemed to get them both agitated as she drifted from the cinnamon selection to cloves and waited for them to be done. Blaise ended up getting several things and telling the man he’d be back with examples of mustard made with _both_ types of whatever it was they were disagreeing over and then the man would have to concede that he, Blaise, was right. 

“I am right, you know,” he said as they sat down for tea. “He thinks just because he owns the shop he knows what he’s talking about, but he’s really more a curry kind of guy. I know mustard.”

“You are so weird,” Hermione said after she put in an order for tea and scones. “Does Ginny know how utterly round the bend you are when it comes to condiments?”

“And coffee,” Blaise said complacently. “She says it’s cute.”

Hermione blinked at him. “True love, then. Go figure.”

Blaise picked up a sugar packet and bent it back and forth between his fingers while he waited for the tea to arrive. “It’s not. We’re just having fun. I mean, she’s just having fun. I… she’s…”

Hermione sighed. “And you’re stuck, aren’t you?”

“She’s kind of perfect,” Blaise said. “Have you _seen_ her legs? They go on _forever_. And she’s smart and she doesn’t take any shite and….” He dropped the packet and picked up another one and began worrying at that one. “Just… let’s not talk about Ginny, shall we? I’m going to enjoy it while it lasts.” He moved on to a third packet. “Let’s talk about Draco.”

“So that’s why you brought me here.”

Blaise sighed. “How much has he told you about Lucius?”

“Almost nothing,” Hermione said, stopping as the waitress brought them their tea and a plate of what she later conceded really were excellent scones. “Thank you,” she said and poured a bit of milk into her cup and began to stir. Turning her attention back to Blaise she said, “I’ve put together he was a horror but the details are… I don’t have any.”

“Horror is an understatement,” Blaise said. “Theo’s dad – your dad – was just distant. There were expectations that Theo would get good marks and be a good little aristocrat and steer clear of the hoi polloi and all that but he wasn’t _on_ Theo all the time. I wouldn’t call his childhood happy but it wasn’t the kind that leaves a person shaking in the dark.”

“Abuse,” Hermione said flatly.

“Lucius specialized in cutting words and creative punishments,” Blaise said. “He wasn’t a hitter. He was more in the way of destroying things Draco loved in front of him. Boy has to earn his goodies, he’d say to Narcissa. Her parents had been more in the line of physical violence and then ignoring her so maybe she didn’t realize how awful the constant nitpicking was. Maybe she agreed with him. She’d shower Draco in treats and Lucius would take them away until Draco deserved them.”

“Did he ever?” Hermione asked, struggling to keep her voice calm.

“Lucius was pleased as punch, as they say, when Draco tried to get that stupid animal put down in, what was it, third year? Bullying, keeping the lesser orders in their place: that was the kind of thing Lucius rewarded. I don’t know more than a fraction of what went on but… Lucius fucked him up, Hermione. He would have been… even without the war and the disaster of joining the Death Eaters he would have been a mess. As it is… he’s… tell me you’re not going to walk away. I know he’s a prat and a prejudiced arsehole and he didn’t start any of this thing with you out with what any person would call anything but the shittiest of motives – “

“I was his little pureblood princess,” Hermione whispered. “A way to finally make daddy and mummy happy.”

“But he’s… you’re _changing_ him and he’s… Merlin, I don’t want to have to pick up the pieces if you leave now.” Blaise stirred his tea with such vigor the spoon clanked against the cup with a sound that seemed loud.

Hermione reached across the table and took Blaise’s hand, grateful they weren’t in some wizarding establishment and some photographer wasn’t going to pop out from behind the plants to capture the gossip headline _Nott Heiress Moves On From Malfoy_ just because she grabbed this friend’s fingers in a tight squeeze. “I bought a ring,” she said. “Theo helped me pick it out to make sure it was all kinds of appropriate.”

Blaise squeezed her fingers back. “Really?” he said.

“Yeah.” Hermione pulled her hand away and began breaking her scone into small pieces. “I already knew Lucius was bad. The details on the ways he was awful may make me want to throw up but….” She trailed off and considered the pastry she was destroying. “He got a life sentence, right? He’s never going to show up on our doorstep to terrorize Draco, right?”

“He’s locked away for good,” Blaise said. 

“I can’t kill him, can I?” Hermione said, starting to pulverize the crumbs on her plate.

Blaise shook his head.

“Figures,” she muttered, then took a deep breath. “Tell me more about this mustard issue.”

Blaise looked at her. “Thank you,” he said. 

“I know,” Hermione muttered. “I’m a saint for listening to your spice obsessions.”

“That wasn’t what I –“

“I know.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Theo and Hermione sat in their favorite Thai restaurant and Hermione poked at the carrot floating in her soup, pushing it down and watching it bob up again. Theo watched her and finally said, “Having second thoughts?”

“No!” Hermione looked up at him, her face nearly stricken. “But,” she sighed. “He’s so scared. Theo, he looked like he was going to actually throw up when I asked about his wretched father and Blaise has already found a way to take me out and warn me it was bad.”

“It was,” Theo confirmed quietly.

“I just wish I could make it better,” Hermione said, going back to jabbing at the carrot with its decorative zigzag cutting.

“I think you do,” her brother said, reaching a hand out across the table. “Leave the carrot alone. It hasn’t done anything to you.”

“I’m pretending it’s Lucius Malfoy and I’m drowning him,” she muttered.

Theo put his hand over hers. “Just eat the soup,” he said. “He’s in Azkaban. He can’t hurt anyone anymore.”

The look Hermione gave him was one of fury made impotent because she couldn’t lash out at the man. 

“How are you doing after your encounter with our father?” Theo asked taking his hand away and picking up his spoon. “He wants to see you again.”

“Really?” Hermione made a face. “Colour me surprised.”

“I know it might be hard to believe but that was warm for him,” Theo said. “Almost gushing.” He took a bite of soup to avoid having to say any more.

“You know,” Hermione said, “growing up as me wasn’t so awful. You and Draco seem so… just wildly offended I was raised by Muggles, but –“

“You could have died,” Theo said, getting angry again. “You got to Hogwarts and everyone told you that you were filthy and then there was the War. If you’d been my sister, like you should have been, none of that would have happened.” He only kept himself from slamming his spoon down with a force of will. “He hurt you, Hermione. He just… his choices hurt you,” he said again, sounding subdued and sad. “I don’t want anyone hurting you.”

“Not everyone told me that,” she said. “You did, or would have if you’d talked to me. Draco did.”

“One of these days I’m going to take him out and flatten him for all the Mudblood comments,” Theo muttered. 

Hermione smiled at him. “Oh, Theo, you don’t need to defend my honor.”

“I know you had a good childhood,” he said. “I just… I want to take back all the things that happened to you once you entered our world, make you the princess you should have been the whole time.”

“All shiny and special?” she asked gently and he gave her a look that was half exasperated, half guilty. She was the one who took his hand this time. “I love you, Theo. Maybe next weekend we can go – “

“Next weekend’s the wedding,” he said, shaking his head. “Time to dress up and watch your friends get married.”

“Ugh. Do you think Lavender’s found any more revolting pureblood customs she can incorporate?”

“I might have told Ron really traditional witches get married naked under a full moon.”

“Did he pass that on?” Hermione asked, trying not to snicker.

“I’m guessing not since, to the best of my knowledge, he’s still alive,” Theo replied, picking up his spoon to get back to his soup as Hermione gave up and just laughed.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Blaise opened the door without asking her anything but she could feel his dark eyes watch her as she crossed the room in silence and let herself into Draco’s room.

Draco was huddled on his bed, back against the wall, staring at the Mark on his arm. He didn’t react when she slid onto the bed next to him.

“I was the youngest ever,” he said without preamble. “Even Regulus Black was older. And I wanted it. Don’t make excuses for me, don’t tell yourself I was held down and branded against my will. I asked for it. I thought it would make him proud of me.”

Hermione pulled his head down into her lap and began stroking his hair. 

“It didn’t, of course. I sold my soul to the same madman he did and all he said was that I hadn’t managed to do what I’d been told. That if I’d managed it faster he wouldn’t have had to spend so much time in Azkaban.” He gave out a choked sob. “You should hate me, Hermione. I was vile to you. I was loathsome and horrible and behaved… and I believed all of it. All of it. I thought your touch was dirty, that if you so much as brushed against me in the hall I had to go scrub away the contamination.”

“I forgave you a long time ago,” she said softly, her hand moving in his hair as her fingers pet and pet those fine, nearly translucent strands. “You aren’t your father, Draco.”

“You want to know about him and I want to tell you but I don’t even know was normal and what wasn’t. I don’t know. I don’t know. He loved me, Hermione, I know he did. He just… how can I know what to do?”

“It’s okay,” she said, keeping her fingers from clenching with a force of will. “We can figure things out together.”

I just always wanted to be good enough,” he whispered. 

“You are,” she said. “Oh, Draco, you are.”

“I wasn’t,” he said. “Not ever.” He caught her hand with his. “I’m not good enough for you, Hermione. War heroine. Brave. Noble.”

“Mudblood,” she said and he flinched as if she’d hit him.

“I don’t care,” he said. “Muggle-born. Nott Princess. I don’t care. I just wish I were good enough for you.”

“You are,” she said. She tugged him up again and pulled herself into his lap. Bemused, Draco shifted her until he was comfortable. “I love you, Draco Malfoy,” she said. “You’ve been a right prat in a lot of ways – “

“Bit worse than a prat,” he muttered, so obviously trying to ignore what she’d said.

“- but it’s over and we’re here.” She pulled something out of a pocket and Draco’s swallowed at the tiny box in her hand. “I was going to be very romantic and give this to you at the wedding next weekend but Blaise owled me that you were in a bad way and, well, maybe this will reassure you that I’m not planning on going anywhere just because your father was a prick I’ve taken to fantasizing about drowning.”

“Drowning?” Draco asked as he took the box from her, his hands shaking.

“It’s a bad way to die, or so I understand,” she said. “I haven’t really done a lot of research, I admit, so I might be wrong. Maybe once you tell me more about him I’ll be motivated to look into even worse ways.”

Draco pulled the box open and lifted out the simple ring. “Hermione,” he said, voice as calm as he could make it. “I’m not sure you understand what this means. Don’t… don’t… I can’t bear the thought of taking this from you and having you decide to end things later.”

She tugged the gold monstrosity he’d borrowed from Blaise off his hand and, reaching across him, managed to stretch her arm out far enough to set it on the nightstand. “It means no one will think I had the bad taste to pick that thing out any longer,” she said. At his worried expression she leaned in and kissed him. “Draco, I love you. Put the ring on and lay down. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

He made her do it, though, holding the ring out to her until she took it and slipped it on his finger. “I really don’t know what I did to deserve you,” he said, closing his eyes and swallowing hard. “I’ll try to – “

“Love isn’t something you deserve,” Hermione said, her heart breaking as she watched him. “Love is something you have. It’s just… it’s a gift, Draco. It’s not something you have to be good to get or something you earn. It’s not a reward. It just is. We just are.”

He shook his head and she closed her eyes and then opened them again and started tugging off her shirt. “I’m tired,” she said, though she suspected she’d lie there trying not to cry for him instead of sleeping. “Come to bed and hold me.”

“You can’t stay here,” he said, shaking himself back into some concern for proprieties. “It’s… you can’t!”

Hermione kicked her shoes off and then pulled her skirt off. “Unfasten me,” she said, turning so her back was to him. “And do you have a t-shirt I could borrow to sleep in?”

Draco lifted his hand to the clasp of her bra. “Hermione,” he said again. “It’s… this is –“

“I swear, if you say it’s against the rules I might take up kicking you in your sleep,” she said. “I’m staying. I’m staying tonight. I’m staying forever. And you might as well get used to it and start letting some of those rules go. Time for them to run free. Be free, little rules!”

“You aren’t making sense,” Draco said but he unhooked the bra and summoned a t-shirt from one of his drawers. She put it on and he looked at her. “I love you, too,” he said. 

“I’m glad,” she said. “It would be right weird to have one of these pureblood understanding things with you if you didn’t.”


	16. Chapter 16

Hermione sat with Ginny trying to pretend she wasn’t eavesdropping on the conversation going on in the kitchen. They’d poured themselves some lemonade and fled, sitting down at the table on the porch to escape the last-minute wedding hysteria but the sounds of Lavender’s nervousness followed them through the open windows. Ginny kept meeting Hermione’s glance and rolling her eyes and that made it increasingly difficult not to giggle.

“Lavender,” Molly was saying, “I really don’t think the firewhiskey bottle tradition is accurate. It’s just an old wives tale.”

“But now it will rain,” Lavender said, her voice spiraling up in hysteria. “I _told_ Won Won he had to bury that bottle upside down at the site of the wedding to keep the rain away and he went and _drank_ it!”

Ginny whispered, “It was good, too,” and Hermione put her hand over her mouth as if she could physically hold the mirth in.

“Lavender,” Ron said, “It was 18-year-old barrel-aged firewhiskey. You didn’t really expect me to bury it, did you?”

The girl said something no one could hear and Ron snapped, “Well, I don’t care what Pansy told you. No one does these things, Lavender. No one. I love you but you have lost your bloomin’ mind!” There was another pause and then Ron said, “Look, if you wanted to go really, _really_ traditional and pureblood and insane we could go get married in the woods, naked, with only a priestess there to handfast us.”

Lavender began to sob so loudly Hermione whispered, “She missed her calling as an actress,” and it was Ginny’s turn to try to repress giggles.

There was the sound of a loud crack and both women started to stand up then, flushing, settled back into their seats. Some war reflexes never quite went away. 

Lavender pushed her way out to the porch, glared through her red eyes at the two women sitting there, and, her hand rubbing the red mark on her cheek, stalked off. Ron came out, threw an apologetic look at his sister and muttered, “Mum slapped her to try to knock her out of her hysteria. I guess I shouldn’t have brought up the skyclad-in-the-woods thing.”

“I think it’s a great idea,” Ginny said, her eyes sparkling. “Think how much money you’d save.”

“Too late,” Ron said. “We’d never get deposits back now.”

“I wonder if Draco would be game for that,” Hermione said, grinning at Ron. “Him being so conservative at all.”

“Can I be a bridesmaid for that?” Ginny asked.

Hermione snorted. “As if. You just want to see Draco naked.”

Ginny looked as innocent as she could. “I’m just trying to encourage you to embrace your pureblood heritage, Hermione. You’re a princess now. You really need to start acting like it.” She batted her eyes and Hermione laughed.

“You two are going to kill me,” Ron said. “No looking at Draco naked!”

“As you said about the deposits, too late,” Hermione said, examining her fingernails.

“Not you,” Ron said. “My sister can keep her eyes on _not_ your boyfriend. Fiancé. What is he, again?”

Hermione squinched up her nose. “What do you call the understanding thing? Boyfriend? Engaged to be engaged?”

“Intended, I think,” Ron said. “Or so I have been informed. I have not actually looked it up myself.” He sighed and looked after Lavender, who had slowed down and was walking away from them on the dusty road. “I need to go after her, don’t I?”

“You really do,” Hermione said.

Ron shook his head. “She was mental if she thought I would have buried that bottle. I just wish I knew who ratted me out.”

Ginny coughed “George” into her hand.

Ron looked at her. “Figures,” he muttered and then took off after Lavender. “Sweetheart,” he called out. “Hold up. We can get another bottle. We can do whatever you want. I’ll even wear the embroidered robes if that’ll make you happy.”

“Embroidered robes?” Hermione looked at Ginny.

“With the signs of the zodiac,” Ginny confirmed. “They are the twee-est things you’ve ever seen.”

Hermione gave a sigh of deep contentment. “I find I can’t wait for this wedding.”

. . . . . . . . . .

When Draco knocked at Hermione’s door his stomach had been curdled in dread for hours. Appearing together at a wedding was almost as binding as being caught shagging in Trafalgar Square would have been, maybe more so. Hermione opened latch, slipped out and put her hand on his cheek. “You look paler than usual,” she noted.

“Just… this is significant,” Draco said. “I’ve been warned Lavender’s stacked the guest list with every pureblood she could get to come. She’s tried to turn it into a huge society affair. There will be _reporters_.” He could feel his conservative soul recoiling in scandal from that idea. 

His mother had declined her invitation and had made a face when he told her he was going. “She’s crass,” Narcissa Malfoy had said, making her moue of distaste. That expression had been infamous before the war; Narcissa Malfoy’s polite condemnation had once been enough to scuttle any pretensions to unearned nobility. Now, of course, her approval had less weight. Now she was just the wife of a convicted Death Eater.

“I’m taking Hermione,” he’d said and his mother had perked up.

“Theo’s sister,” she’d said, nearly purring. “To a wedding.” She’d frowned a bit. “The wedding of an upstart and a blood traitor but, still, a wedding.” 

Draco had closed his eyes for a moment as his mother had continued on. “You’ll have to bring her to meet me soon, son.”

“Of course, mother,” he’d said.

“I like the new ring,” Narcissa had added. “Much more appealing than that thing you borrowed from Blaise. She had good taste.”

“Will Blaise be there?” Hermione asked, interrupting his thoughts.

Draco shook his head. “He doesn’t want to do to Ginny what I’m about to do to you.” 

Hermione ran her finger over the ring on his hand. “I think I’ve already peed on you, so to speak, love, and marked you as mine. Why do I care if more people know?”

He rested his forehead up against hers. “You are a bit of a wonder, Miss Granger,” he said.

“Shall we go and endure the wedding of the century?” she asked. “I understand Ron will be wearing embroidered robes.”

Draco narrowed his eyes. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“With the signs of the zodiac,” Hermione confirmed.

“Merlin help us all,” Draco said. “This is going to be a disaster.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The Weasleys had pitched a tent on their property and, after they apparated in, Draco held his arm out and, with Hermione’s hand resting on it, led her through a doorway dripping with bundles of some herb and sparkling crystals.

“Is that sage?” Hermione whispered but Draco didn’t respond because the very large portrait of Lavender on display had taken his eye. She was posed in what he supposed must be her wedding robes, though why she’d dredged up Druella or Walburga Black’s fashion choices as inspiration for her wedding dress he had no idea. Maybe she’d thought the dated style was somehow traditional and thus required. He hoped that Hermione wouldn’t feel the need to dress up like his grandmother for their wedding. Lavender preened and waved from the portrait, the girlish antics garishly out of place in the old-fashioned robes. “Do I have to have one of those made?” Hermione said, her voice so low only he could hear her.

“It is traditional,” he admitted. “Though this one seems a little… bigger than is customary.”

“Oh,” Hermione said, her fingers digging into his arm. When he looked down at her she seemed to be trying not to laugh.

He put his most solemn expression on. “For you, love, only the best. We’ll hire the most renowned portrait painter in all of Britain to capture your likeness and display it first at our wedding and then above our mantle. I will have a substantial copy made to keep on our front stoop so everyone can see how conspicuously we live.”

She looked up at him, true horror on her face until she saw his mouth quirk, and then she hit him with her free hand. “You are not a nice man, Draco Malfoy,” she hissed. 

He leaned down and kissed the edge of her hair. “I think we can skip the portrait,” he said. “If you’d prefer.”

“Maybe we can get one of you,” she suggested and he felt the acid in his stomach finally begin to relent. He’d never expected a woman who didn’t take these things seriously to make him feel easier about the pressure of the customs that had held him almost immobile his whole life. Hermione, however, brushed them aside as though they were cobwebs rather than the leaden weights they’d always seemed to him. She made them not matter.

Well, he thought looking down at the dull platinum ring on his hand. She made the few she honored matter more. He could feel the box on the inside pocket of his own dress robes. She’d planned on being romantic and then not been able to because she’d needed to save him from his own darkness. He would bring the romance.

Looking over at the gift table he had the unkind thought that Lavender had done a fine job of supplying the avarice so _someone_ would have to handle the romance.

“I love you,” he said.

“That’s good,” she said, “because I love you too. Let’s let this nice usher show us to a seat so we can read the poetic invocations Lavender has printed in the program.”

“The _program_?” Draco asked in disbelief. “There’s a _program_?”

“Mmhmm,” Hermione said. “I believe she read in _Witch Weekly Wedding Edition_ that proper brides always have programs.”

“I’ve never been to a wedding with a program,” Draco said, struggling to contain his scorn. Ron was Hermione’s friend and he really shouldn’t condemn the man’s wedding as tasteless before the ceremony had even begun. After all, he had the terrible feeling the ceremony would offer ample opportunities for condemnation.  
  
He was right.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Well,” Hermione said as they stood by a fountain, glasses of champagne clutched in their hands. “That was certainly interesting. I had no idea one could try to invoke fertility during a wedding ceremony.”

“Or that doing so would involve what looked a lot like a, uh,” Draco hesitated.

“Dildo?” Hermione asked.

“Where did they _get_ that?” Draco asked.

“And, more to the point, why did they think it was a good idea?” Hermione said. “When she kissed it, oh Merlin, I thought – “

“I thought she was about to let us know whether or not Ron was a lucky, lucky man,” Draco said, swallowing champagne, looking speculatively at his glass, and then draining the rest of it. 

Hermione began to giggle. “So… was that a pureblood custom? Shall I ask your mother whether she ever deep throated the sacred fertility sex toy at her wedding to your father.”

  
“Oh, please don’t,” Draco said, setting his empty glass on the tray of a passing caterer and grabbing a fresh one. “I’m begging you. I’d do anything to avoid that conversion.”

“So, you’re telling me proper pureblood wives _don’t_ do that?” Hermione teased. “And here I was wondering where we’d get _our_ fertility symbol.”

Draco began to turn a deep red and her eyes widened. “No,” she said. “Tell me that blush is about something else.”

He mumbled something and then, when she poked him, muttered, “It’s usually done in private, but there _are_ fertility rituals. My father handed me a book once and suggested I ask the house elves any questions I had.”

“The _house elves_?” Hermione had moved from teasing to aghast.

“Yeah, well,” Draco took another deep swallow of champagne. “You also don’t usually use a prop so, barring some kind of tragic accident, I doubt we’ll have trouble finding the, uh, symbol we need.”

Hermione dropped her eyes to her trousers for a moment and began to grin. “Maybe you could show me sometime,” she said. “I’m always interested in learning about magic.” She paused. “I’m grateful, now, that Lavender used a prop.”

Draco grinned back, relieved she wasn’t going to push about his father, and then considered the ramifications of what she’d just said. “Me too,” he said, “Merlin. Me too.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Rita Skeeter approached them, notebook in hand and quill at the ready, before the cocktail hour was over. Draco glanced down nervously at Hermione. Here it went. Any hope Hermione had had of containing news of their relationship, of keeping it as nothing more than gossipy speculation, was gone. He was surprised to see an almost feral pleasure on her face as she regarded the reporter.

“Rita,” Hermione purred, “what a pleasure to see you.”

“Likewise,” Rite Skeeter said.

“I’m sure, of course,” Hermione continued, “that you’ll be scrupulous in your reporting. No half-truths about myself or my intended. You know how that upsets me.”

Rita Skeeter’s eyes widened at that blatant confirmation of what she’d hoped to drag out of the witch even as she ignored the threat. “Of course not, Ms. Granger,” she said. “Nott. Granger. How _do_ you prefer to be addressed these days?”

“Oh, Hermione is fine,” she said. “My last name is a bit of a conundrum right now so, until I make a permanent change, it’s easier to go by my first.”

“Hermione,” Rita Skeeter said, “how did you and your _intended_ like the ceremony? I recall you and Ron Weasley were a bit of an item back in the day.”

“Oh,” Hermione said with a smile, “Ron and I were never more than friends. Wartime generates all sorts of rumors, but the truth is that we have been friends since our first year at Hogwarts and will be friends our whole lives. I’m delighted for him and Lavender.”

“Will you be including any of these old-timey traditions in your own ceremony?” the reporter asked with what she probably thought was a sly smile.

Draco answered that one. “I’m charmed to see the new Mrs. Weasley breathe life into so many of our old customs but I suspect Hermione and I will opt for something a little simpler and more intimate.”

Hermione added, “No reporters, for example. Just family and close friends.”

“But you two _are_ planning a wedding,” Rita pushed.

“Planning might be a bit of an exaggeration,” Hermione said as she pulled Draco’s hand up, the ring glinting, “but you can assure your readers we are very much an item.” She grinned at Draco who was trying to keep a polite smile on his face. “Albeit a disorganized one with no plans.”

“Would the Weasleys be invited to this intimate affair?” Rita asked. “How do your friends feel, Hermione, about your relationship with Mr. Malfoy?”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “They adore him, of course,” she said. “They did somewhat learn to trust my judgment when we were all fighting together and if I say Draco is the one for me then, naturally, they welcome him with open arms.”

“And your family?” Rita went on.

Hermione laughed. “Theo is the one who introduced us,” she said. “They’ve been friends their whole lives.” She turned to Draco and said, “Did I tell you he said if it were still his job to pick out a husband for me he would have chosen you?”

“No,” Draco said, bringing his charming, aristocratic smile to the surface. “Loathsome custom that was. I can’t say I’m sad it died away. But kind of him, I’m sure.”

“How about your… other… parents?” Rita asked, looking at Hermione with hunger in her squinting eyes.

Draco held a hand up. “As I’m sure you know, they are legally dead. The protection given to them in the war can’t be reversed and they have no ability to recall their former lives or their daughter. I’m sure you didn’t mean to be cruel to my intended.” He smiled a toothy smile that made Rita Skeeter take a half step backward. “I would pursue anyone who was cruel to my intended to the fullest extent of the law.” The ‘and then some’ hung unspoken in the air.

“My apologies,” Rita said after a moment. “How about your family, Mr. Malfoy?”

“My father is in Azkaban,” Draco said, smile never faltering, “and we’re estranged, but my mother is quite pleased.”

“Does Harry Potter approve of your relationship” Rita Skeeter asked. “He and Mr. Malfoy were quite the rivals in school, as I recall.”

Hermione smiled again. “Of course he does. But you could ask him yourself. I see him right over there.” She waved with the hand holding her champagne flute toward Harry Potter, who was standing with a dark haired woman in a long green dress near one of the tent supports.

Recognizing the dismissal Rita Skeeter murmured a polite phrase and scurried off to talk to Potter.

“Is that Pansy Parkinson he’s talking to?” Hermione asked.

Draco squinted toward the couple and let out a low whistle when the woman to face him and he recognized Pansy. “Well,” he said. “Wonders never cease. It is.”


	17. Chapter 17

Hermione and Draco were seated at the same table at Theo. He and Draco made eye contact and almost immediately tried not to laugh. Draco was more successful at suppressing his mirth but even Theo kept himself to only a smothered snicker. “Lovely ceremony,” Draco got out at last.

“Oh, yes,” Theo said, reaching across to take a carafe of water and fill first his glass then Hermione’s before handing glass container off to Draco. “Ron’s a lucky man.”

Draco’s hand shook at that but he managed not to spill any of the water he was pouring. “Very lucky,” he said. “And he’s got a keen fashion sense. Those robes were quite the thing.”

“Draco,” Hermione hissed but he flashed her a bland smile and she picked up the champagne glass she’d brought to the table with her and looked at the centerpiece. For some reason the candle was surrounded by what appeared to be chicken eggs. 

Theo followed her gaze and snickered and tipped his head toward them. “Is she aiming for triplets or something?” he asked.

“All children are a blessing,” Draco said in as sanctimonious a voice as Hermione had ever heard him use. “I think the way she’s utilizing old symbols is charming.” He took a sip of water. “I wonder if she cooked the eggs.”

“Bad luck to cook them,” Theo said. 

“I wonder if she realizes she’s supposed to drink the yolks,” Draco mused. “There’s what – a dozen eggs per table. How many tables would you say there are, Theo?”

“Several score,” the man replied. “But I’m sure they’re just decorative.” He smiled at Hermione. “How are you, sis?”

“We don’t have to do this, right?” she asked in an undertone. “This kind of… pomp? This isn’t some pureblood thing like the jewelry or the public touching you’re going to feel like you have to hold me to, right?”

Theo smiled as other people sat down. “If you even think of planning a wedding like this I’ll sit on you until you promise not to,” he said in an undertone. He turned to the girl who’d settled at his other side; she had on a silver dress with short sleeves and a low neckline that flowed over her like water and her wand was shoved into the pile of blonde curls on her head. “I’m not sure we’ve met. I’m Theodore Nott.”

“Nott. Night,” she said and tilted her head to the side. “Germanic.”

Theo goggled at her for a moment and then smiled. “Do I get to know your name?” he asked as he took a sip of his water.

“Luna,” she said. “Are those eggs? That doesn’t work, you know.” She put her napkin in her lap as she looked at the centerpiece. “That kind of sympathetic magic is almost impossible to control.”

Hermione bent forward so she could see around Theo. “Hi Luna,” she said.

“Luna. Moon,” Theo said as Luna said, “Oh, nice to see you, Hermione. This must be the Hogwarts table of people Lavender doesn’t really like.” She looked over at Theo who was choking on the water he’d been drinking. “That’s right,” she said, “though most people go right to lunatic. People used to believe sleeping in moonlight would make you crazy. It’s how we got the word.” She squinted at him as he coughed and spluttered. “Are you okay? Was there something in the water?”

“I’m fine,” he gasped. “I take it you and Hermione know each other?”

“We were in the DA together,” Hermione said, her voice a little clipped.

“Hermione doesn’t like talking about the war,” Luna said. “Hi Draco.”

Draco Malfoy flushed to the roots of his fair hair and grabbed his own water glass. “Where’s the waiter with the wine,” he muttered before saying, “Hullo, Luna. Nice to see you again.”

“Nicer location this time,” Luna said. “Though your cellar’s not as bad as one would think.”

Theo looked at Draco who muttered, “She was held captive in the Manor.” He looked at Luna. “Sorry about that.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” she said, reaching forward to pick up one of the eggs. “Are these even real?” She pulled an empty glass from the seat on her other side closer to her and cracked the egg on the rim, then hit it harder. It finally broke open and the uncooked egg – which, indeed, was real – slid over her hand and into the glass. She looked at the goo and made a face before reaching for her wand with her other hand.  
  


“Allow me,” Theo said, pulling out his own wand. “I wouldn’t want to risk your hair tumbling down.”

“Not until later, no,” Luna said.

Theo blinked a few times but quickly cleaned up the egg and held his wine glass out to the waiter who’d finally arrived. “You can just leave a bottle or two at the table,” he said. “Please.”

“Of course, sir” the waiter murmured.

Pansy Parkinson flopped into a seat across from them. “Oh, thank god,” she said. “You got them to leave the wine. Theo, you’re my favorite man today.”

“Not Potter?” Draco asked with a sly lilt to his voice. She glanced over at him and he smiled blandly at her. “We saw you two chatting earlier. Is he going to be your newest fling, Pans?”

“Maybe not; I’m annoyed with him right now,” the woman said. “He refused to leave the head table to come and sit with me. Oh my god, are those eggs?” She stared at the centerpiece. “This just gets better and better. Did anyone read the poetry in the program? Theo, pour me a glass and don’t stint.”

“They’re raw,” Luna said. “You read French?”

“Of course I do,” Pansy said. “I’m not sure my governess even spoke English.” She looked back at the eggs with a combination of amusement and disgust on her face. “At this rate she’ll be doing the first dance on the pole.”

It was Draco’s turn to nearly choke. “Pansy,” he hissed, “You can’t say that.”

“Why not?” the woman demanded. “Are we doing that thing where we sit around and make pleasant conversation but never admit this is the tackiest wedding we’ve ever been to?” She took a glass from Theo and swallowed a generous portion of the wine before adding, “And I quite like Ronald too. I hope she’s a wildcat in bed because Merlin knows this wedding suggests he’s pussy whipped beyond belief.”

“I think they’re very much in love,” Hermione said.

Pansy snorted. “I’m not debating that but, really, did you see the size of that portrait?” 

“My mum’s was smaller,” Luna said. “But then, she was naked in hers.”

Theo closed his eyes for a moment before saying, voice strained, “In her bridal portrait?”

“They had a traditional wedding,” Luna said. “Oh, look, the salad is here.”

There was a merciful lull in the conversation while they all thanked the catering staff for the salads and began to eat. 

When she put her fork down Pansy looked at Theo and then at Luna and said, “Do you two even know each other?”

Luna patted her mouth with her napkin. “Not yet. Are you always this rude?”

“Yes,” Pansy said, looking up at the head table with a grouchy expression. “You know him best, Granger. Is this worth my time?”

Hermione followed the woman’s gaze. Harry was looking back at them, clearly bored out of his wits. Lavender had draped herself across Ron and was feeding him little bites of salad and, with the two of them occupied and Ginny way on the other side of Lavender looking equally bored, Harry had no one to talk to. “Harry’s had a rough time,” she said. “He’s… don’t listen to him when he decides it’s in your best interest to end things.”

“What does that mean?” Pansy demanded. “Is he a drunk or something? Because I’m not into saving lost souls, Granger. That’s _your_ hobby, apparently.” She gave Draco a look that mixed her earlier grouchiness with the familiarity of long friendship.

Hermione shook her head as she ignored the byplay between Pansy and Draco. “He… a lot of people he cared about died on what he thinks was his watch,” she said. “He… he’ll think you’ll die too.”

Pansy rolled her eyes at that. “What utter drivel. The war is over.”

“And there’s the reporters,” Hermione added. “Everywhere he goes.”

Pansy crossed her arms as she leaned back in her seat. “I’d like to see some reporter try to interrupt my evening,” she said. “You and Draco and Theo just suck that shite up and smile pretty but that is not my style.”

“Good,” Hermione said, her voice still soft. Theo had to lean closer to her to hear her next words. “Fucking vultures,” she said.

Pansy, who clearly had a pretty good idea of what Hermione had murmured so quietly, cackled. “I think I might like you, Granger.” 

“Good,” Hermione said, “Because I do rather come with Harry.”

“Well, that was a little more information than I needed,” Pansy said. They all gaped at her as she added with a smirk, “thought that does seem to be the theme of this wedding.” She looked at the plate the caterer slid in front of her. “Is this chicken? Ugh. Why is it always chicken kiev and potatoes?”

“Who wants to bet there’ll be spotted dick?” Draco asked, poking at his own chicken with a sigh.

“She wouldn’t,” Hermione said. “Not after that thing with the… no.”

She did.

. . . . . . . . . .

Any hope Pansy would omit the typical throwing of the garter was doomed. Draco reached up and snagged the bit of lace and satin out of the air to polite, if strained, applause and comments that he did know this meant he was supposed to be next. He smiled in such a way everyone laughed before he wrapped an arm around Hermione, pulling her against him. “If you make me pull your garter off with my teeth in public, I swear, I’ll turn you over my knee and spank you,” he murmured in her ear.

“Try it and I’ll gut you,” she murmured back.

“So, we’re agreed,” he said. “No garter ceremony.”

She shuddered against him. “I can agree to that.” she said.

. . . . . . . . . .

The opening dance was _not_, as Pansy had cattily predicted, on a pole and once everyone had gamely watched Ron and Lavender waltz with no grace whatsoever around the floor, Draco led Hermione out. 

“I can’t dance,” she confessed. 

Draco shrugged. “Dance lessons since I was five,” he said quietly. “Just follow my lead.”

“No, I can’t dance,” she said in a near panic. “Draco, I was almost kicked out of tot ballet I was so bad.”

“Trust me,” he said, taking her hand. “All you need to do is let me take over.”

A few minutes later, as the music transitioned, she looked up at him in wonder. “You’re right,” she said. “I… that was so much fun.”

Draco kissed her hairline. “I told you,” he said, trying to control his smug tone. “We were taught to make anyone graceful. You can thank my wretched mother for making me go to lessons for years. I hated it at the time and used to hide behind the piano.”

Hermione laughed and stood up on her toes to kiss his nose. “Prat,” she said with obvious fondness and he tightened his hands on her. 

He nudged her to look over at Theo, who was trying to guide Luna through something resembling a conventional waltz with what seemed to be little success. “Was he better at hiding from dance class?” Hermione asked.

Draco laughed. “I think she just might be more resistant to convention,” he said.

Pansy and Harry twirled by and Hermione blew Harry a kiss. He smiled at her and blew one back.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione had tucked herself out of the way of the bulk of the wedding guests and was watching the proceeding with what Draco thought looked like exhaustion; it had been a long night and the party wasn’t showing any signs of winding down. She leaned her head on his shoulder and didn’t even twitch when a camera went off near them.

“Above the fold or below?” he teased quietly and she just groaned.

“How do you feel about eloping?” she muttered. 

He forced himself not to react. “I should be so lucky,” he said. “I’m pretty sure this kind of large – “

“Tedious,” Hermione interjected.

“- affair is pretty much required in the pureblood world.” He carefully didn’t look at her. “Not that I’d object to eloping. I just always assumed any woman I married would want something like… this. Well, maybe not _exactly_ like this,” he said and paused to consider some of Lavender Weasley’s more interesting choices, “but more like this than not.”

“Because you have to marry a pureblood,” she said.

Draco still didn’t look at her. “That was always the plan. I’m lucky it’s the modern world or my parents probably would have had me engaged to the girl of their choice at five.”

“Draco,” she sounded hesitant and he tensed. “Would you still want to be with me if… if I weren’t this Nott thing?”

“Does it matter?” he hedged. “You are.”

She sighed. “I know. You should have heard stupid Lavender when I told her you were my date; she nearly quivered with excitement about what that _meant_. She almost started planning the wedding at the Manor right there. I actually had to remind her I was tortured in that place and don’t really want to ever go there again.”

“Yes, by the way,” he said, closing his eyes to try to block out her level reminder of why she’d never go to his childhood home. Why he could never, ever ask her to. “It wouldn’t… nothing would change.”

“Really?”

Draco hated how her voice sounded so small, so lost. 

“Well,” he said, “you did give me this ring. I do believe you’re stuck with me now, whatever insecurities too much champagne has brought out.”

She laughed a little at that. “I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?” she asked. “Too much bubbly and now I’m maudlin.”

He kissed the side of her hair. “You can be that if you want.” He pulled the box he’d brought out of his pocket and handed it to her. “Maybe this will make you feel better.”

She sat up and took the tiny package and looked at it. “Draco,” she said. “Is this..?”

He smiled. “Just open it,” he said.

She did, and when she saw the simple ruby solitaire set in a dull silver band that matched his ring her eyes widened. 

“You didn’t think I’d be so boring as to go for diamonds?” he teased as he lifted the ring out of the box and held it in at her hand. “Will you marry me, Hermione Granger?” She nodded dumbly and he slipped the ring onto her finger. “Beyond an understanding, yes?” he asked and she nodded again.

“I won’t get married at the Manor,” Hermione said.

“I’d never ask you to,” Draco said. 

“We have a lot to learn about each other still,” she said and he nodded. “And I’m never going to be the perfect little heiress.”

“You’re better,” he said. “I don’t want that. I want you.” He paused before asking, “Would you really let me get away with an elopement?”

Hermione looked back at the crowded dance floor and wondered how soon they could leave without seeming rude before she scooted closer to him. “That would be great,” she said. 


	18. Chapter 18

“Good morning,” Hermione said with perky cheer designed to irritate.

Blaise nearly screeched as he spun in the kitchen to look at the woman coming out of Draco’s room. “You can’t be here,” he said in absolute horror. “Hermione, did you _spend the night_? Oh, Salazar, you can’t do that! What if anyone found out? You’d be ruined. You’d…”

“No one would marry me?” Hermione asked with a bit of a smirk. “I’d be shunned by all right thinking aristocrats? Woe is me. However shall I survive?”

Blaise turned away from her and made a production out of getting out his coffee and grinding the beans and measuring the result into his French press, all while mumbling under his breath. 

“Good morning,” Ginny said, coming out of Blaise’s room. “Is that coffee?”

“Yep,” Hermione said, eyeing Blaise with what was now a fully pronounced smirk. “Can’t do that, huh?”

“Oh, Merlin,” Ginny said, “Is he yammering on about proprieties again? After the wedding we endured last night I vote we all agree to eschew every pureblood tradition ever.”

“The thing with the dildo,” Hermione said with a snicker.

“The giant portrait.”

“The eggs.”

“The poetry was probably the worst,” Draco said, emerging behind Hermione and kissing the top of her head. “Having a program is déclassé enough but, oh Merlin, Blaise, you should have read the poetry she included.”

“You know,” Hermione said, “I don’t read French and she didn’t include a translation.”

“I have a copy of the program,” Ginny said.

“There was a program?” Blaise turned back to the room. “At a _wedding_? I mean, it’s not like it’s a theatre production. What did she do? List the bios of all the participants?”

“Salacious French poetry,” Draco said.

“It was worse than the dildo?” Blaise asked, blinking at them. “A _dildo_? What was a dildo doing at a wedding anyway?”

“She misunderstood some of the old fertility rites,” Draco said. “If it hadn’t been so screamingly awkward and funny to watch Lavender Brown kiss a dildo while Ron tried to find a crack in the floor large enough to hide in I would have felt bad for her.”

“Oh, she didn’t?” Blaise leaned up against the counter and began to laugh. 

“I want someone to translate this poetry for me,” Ginny said. 

Draco was suddenly very interested in his feet. “Don’t think I have a copy of the program,” he muttered, turning red.

“I do,” Ginny said. “Hold on.” She ducked back into Blaise’s room and returned with a crumbled program in her hand. Blaise took it from her and sighed.

“Théophile de Viau?” he asked Draco. “Really?”

“It wouldn’t have been my choice,” Draco said dryly, kissing Hermione one more time before crossing over to join Blaise in their small kitchen. He poured himself a cup of the coffee and looked over his friend’s shoulder at the printed poem and sighed.

“I don’t think I know his work,” Hermione said.

Draco sighed again. “Seventeenth century poet, condemned to be burned alive by Muggles for his writings.”

“Wizard?” she asked.

Draco nodded. “He managed to get the sentence reduced to banishment but… it seems like asking for bad luck to read the love poetry of a condemned man at your wedding.”

“A gay condemned man,” Blaise added.

“I doubt she knew that part,” Draco said with a snort.

“Translation, please,” Ginny said.

“Ugh,” Blaise said, reading it over. “I’m not really that good at French but I’ll give it a go. Something like, ‘I obey without restraint because he gives love to me. He has the desire and so without resistance my soul surrenders to whatever pleases him.’”

“Umm… eww,” said Hermione.

“Ron’s a lucky man,” Blaise said, setting the program down on the counter and pushing it away from him. “I guess.”

“Did she really include a poem that says she’ll do whatever my brother wants in bed in her wedding program,” Ginny was starting to grin. “Who wants to bet Ron has no idea what she agreed to. I wonder if I can – no, I couldn’t. Maybe George. I wonder if George could suggest a bunch of really out there things Ron could ask for and then quote that poem at her.”

“You are an evil woman,” Blaise said.

Ginny might have responded to that but she saw the red glinting on Hermione’s finger and made a much happier squealing noise. “You did it!” she said, flinging her body across the living room to grab her friend’s hand. “Ferrety, complicated, pretty Malfoy and you. Well, I’ll be damned.”

“I’m not ferrety,” Draco muttered.

Ginny looked over at him. “Get used to it, ferret boy. My brothers still ask if I’ve made any new friends in diaries lately. We don’t play nice in our family.”

“I’m not joining _your_ family,” Draco said, eyes wide as he took a giant swallow of his coffee. “The Notts. I’m joining the Notts. Or she’s joining the Malfoys. No Weasleys. No.”

“That’s what you think,” Ginny said. “Your family sucks and, other than Theo, so does Hermione’s. She’s one of us so you are too.” She looked back at Hermione’ engagement ring. “A ruby. Nice. It wouldn’t go with my hair though. I’d go all traditional and want a diamond but this suits you.”

“You’d want a diamond?” Blaise asked, his voice squeaking again.

She didn’t even glance at him. “If you’re taking notes, yes.” She laced her fingers through Hermione’s. “Are you going to go as big and ridiculous as Lavender? If so, I demand you let me pick out the bridesmaid dress. The thing she chose was – “

“Hideous,” Hermione said. 

“More than hideous,” Ginny agreed.

“I think not big,” Hermione said.

“Pity,” Ginny said. “And I was already looking forward to helping you pick out the inappropriate poetry for the program. Maybe one of the dirtier ones from Catullus.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“Where’s Hermione?” Blaise asked.

Draco blanched. “She went to see her father,” he said.

Blaise almost dropped the mortar and pestle he’d been using to grind his current crop of mustard seeds into a powder . “Alone?” he asked. “Please tell me she has Theo with her.”

Draco shook his head. “She took Potter,” he said.

“What the fuck good is that going to do?” Blaise demanded.

Draco ran a hand though his hair. “We compromised,” he said at last. “She was going to go alone and I convinced her to take Potter.”

“Alone?” Blaise squeaked. “She was going to go to Azkaban _alone_?”

“Welcome to dealing with Hermione,” Draco muttered.

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione looked at the graying man across the table from her searching for some sort of family resemblance. She didn’t see one. She supposed she could see Theo in this man’s eyes. They both had the same dark blue, so deep it was almost black, but Theo’s eyes had never been so devoid of care. From the moment he’d walked into her apartment, note in hand, her brother had obviously wanted to love her. Every argument they had about traditions and culture and how she really should avail herself of the Nott fortune came from a place of love and care. This man’s eyes weren’t warmed that way.

“You came back,” he said. “I didn’t expect that.”

She nodded a little. “I wanted to understand,” she said. “I thought you might speak more freely without Theodore or Draco present.”

“They want to protect you,” Thoros Nott said, “as well they should.”

Hermione pushed her sleeve up and held her arm out to him. He read the scar and she watched him blanch.

“Mudblood,” he read aloud, then, “Is the person who did that dead?”

“It was Bellatrix,” Hermione said.

“Then yes,” her father said. “Dead.”

“You care?” she asked.

Thoros Nott didn’t so much as blink as he said, “If whoever had done that to you lived, I would move hell itself to end his life. Her life.”

Hermione leaned back, shaken. She hadn’t expected that.

“Please tell me you didn’t come here alone,” her father said.

She shook her head. “Harry’s out talking to the guards. They’re getting all gushy over having the actual Chosen One in their midst. He hates that crap but he’ll do it.”

“For you.”

“For me,” she agreed.

“It’s good to have loyal friends,” her father said.

They sat, then, in silence until Hermione said, her voice a whisper, “Tell me everything.”

He didn’t insult her by pretending not to understand what she meant. “I didn’t want you,” he admitted. “You were a mistake, a symbol of my failure to take care of a woman I adored. She… she sang to you. Before you were born. She would rub her stomach and sing. And I would listen to her. She had the most beautiful voice. She wanted you so much. She would try to concoct some way she could keep you but I knew… I knew she couldn’t. Her own parents would have disowned her. I wouldn’t have been allowed to marry her. So she,” his voice broke and he took a moment to gather himself before he continued. “She sang to you and I found a family that would love you. And then you were born and the Healer went to take you away and she begged – she screamed – to be allowed to hold you and the woman said it would just make it harder to let you go. She had you wrapped in a blanket and was turning to go and your mother begged me – threatened she’d leave me – and I lifted you out of that Healer’s arms and passed you over. I… I was already involved in the Dark Arts, you know. I knew how to incapacitate the Healer and I did.”

Hermione could feel the tears start to run down her face as her father talked. He’d stopped looking at her; instead he was starting at a point over her shoulder. 

“I handed you to my Calla – that was your mother’s name – and she looked down at your face and I saw her fall in love. She pushed her robe open and put you to her breast and you latched on and she sat there and wept as she nursed you.

“I took a picture of you two together. She’s looking down at you and she was so happy to hold you but so achingly miserable because she knew she couldn’t keep you. And then you were full and you closed your eyes and stopped suckling and she handed you back to me and told me to get out. When I looked back she had curled onto her side and… and she cried every night for six months. She finally asked me to obliviate her so she could forget you. And I did it.

“Sometimes I hated you for making her so unhappy. And sometimes I hated myself for not having the courage to tell everyone to go to hell so she could keep you. So I could keep you.”

“It was a mistake,” he said. “I should have… should have been less concerned with self-preservation and more… braver. I should have been braver.”

“I loved my parents,” Hermione said, and now she was the one staring over his shoulder. “I don’t regret anything.”

Thoros Nott nodded. She could see the movement even though she wasn’t looking at him.

“But maybe we could get to know each other,” she said.

“I’d like that,” he said.

Hermione hesitated before she asked, “What happened to the photo?”

Thoros pulled a small book out of his pocket and pushed it across the table to her. It was a small journal, one of the many comforts Theo had brought him in prison and one of the few he had asked for. To be honest he had forgotten about the picture of her; he’d wanted the other photograph. Still, since Theo had brought his daughter to meet him he’d spent a lot of time looking at it and remembering.

Hermione opened the volume; between the pages she found two pictures. One was of a small, pale woman who looked tired; she had stringy, sweat-soaked hair and was holding a baby to her breast. She reached a hand up to wipe a line of tears away, then tucked her arm back under the small bundle she was holding.

Hermione swallowed against the lump in her throat and turned the photo over. On the back it read, ‘Calla and Asteria.”

She set the photograph and tried to gather her composure. To put off talking a moment longer she looked at the other photograph. It showed a small, dark-haired boy holding the same woman’s hand as she helped him walk. ‘Calla and Theodore’ read the label.

“Can I have this?” she asked, holding up the picture of herself. 

Thoros nodded, his eyes shuttered. 

“I’ll make a copy,” Hermione said. “Bring the original back to you.”

“I would appreciate that,” Thoros Nott said.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Theo looked at the photograph, careful not to get ice cream on it. “Look at you,” he said. “My big sister, all little and squishy.”

Hermione snorted and tucked it back away. “It could be any baby,” she said. “Newborns all look the same.”

“Yeah,” he said, “but it’s _you_.” He leaned back in the little seat at the ice cream parlour and said, “When you make a copy, make one for me too.”

“Why?” Hermione asked.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Because he wants a picture of his sister. Honestly, Hermione.” He licked his own cone and then said to Theo, “She doesn’t get what it’s like having a childhood that wasn’t out of some storybook of cuteness. For her it was all ballet lessons and trips to the museum and season tickets to the children’s theatre, not spiders and silences and wishing things were different.”

“It ended badly,” Hermione said. 

Theo reached out to touch her hand. “I know,” he said. “I wish we could bring them back.”

She shook her head. “Memory charm… I did a really good job, you know. It’s not fixable.” She put the determined smile on her face she always got when she talked about her parents. “They’re happy, you know? They have a great life. They aren’t suffering.” 

No Death Eater killed them goes unsaid.

I miss them goes unsaid.

“I love you,” was all Theo said.

Hermione gave him a wan smile and then said with determined cheer, “So, Harry, tell me about Pansy. How’s _that_ going? Have you tried to dump her yet?”

Theo smothered a laugh as Harry gave Hermione a bit of a mock glare and then admitted, “Yes.”

“What happened?” Hermione asked.

“She told me not to be an idiot,” Harry muttered. “Then suggested I was cheap because I hadn’t taken her to that damn French place Draco took you too, so I said I’d take her there on Friday.”

“Sounds like Pansy,” Theo said. “Had any run-ins with the press yet?”

That made Harry smile. “Yeah,” he said. “And she took the camera away from the guy, opened it, and set the film on fire. He made a yelping sound that was kind of beautiful to hear and threatened to call the Aurors.”

“And then?” Hermione asked, amused.

“She told him to go ahead and she’d file a complaint for stalking, harassment, and attempted assault. He said she’d assaulted him and she pointed out that she hadn’t yet but that could change any moment.”

Theo was laughing so hard at that he almost dropped his ice cream cone. “And?” he asked, far too familiar with Pansy to believe it had ended there.

Harry was starting to grin. “She said the next time he tried to take an picture of her without her permission she’d break his camera and if he tried again she’d break his balls.”

“Can I do that?” Hermione asked Theo.

“No,” he said, “Absolutely not.”

“Why?” she said with utter petulance.

“Well, one, because you aren’t nearly as natively bitchy as Pansy and, two, you might consider letting Draco defend you.”

“He’s too scared of breaking any of your precious rules to tell someone off,” Hermione muttered, slouching in her seat.

Theo took her hand. “Give him time,” he said.

“Malfoy’s a rude prat,” Harry said. “Don’t tell me the war totally broke that. He might just need a little encouragement.”

“Are you really telling me to encourage Draco to be a jerk?” Hermione asked.

“Only to people who deserve it,” Harry said, standing up. “You still sleeping at his place?”

Theo turned red and put his hands over his ears. “Lalalalala I can’t hear you,” he said.

“Yeah,” Hermione said. “Why?”

“Then I’ll see you Saturday when I come to get him for Quidditch.”

“Does he know you’re coming?” she asked.

Harry grinned at her. “Nope.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Lavender includes in her program is ‘Pour mademoiselle D. M.’. Translation is very loose. VERY loose. The French is, ‘J'obéis sans contrainte à l'amour qu'il me donne / Quelque désir qu'il ait, / Et sans lui résister mon âme s'abandonne / A tout ce qui lui plaît.”


	19. Chapter 19

Harry Potter hammered on the door at 8AM and Hermione, pretending to have no idea what was going on, rolled over in bed and shoved at Draco. “Go deal with that,” she ordered. “A pureblood princess needs her beauty sleep.”

“Blaise can get it,” he groaned and pulled a pillow over his head as the hammering continued. 

“He’s at Gin’s,” Hermione said. “And whoever it is isn’t going away.”

“Fine,” Draco said at last and he grouched his way out of bed, pulled on a pair of trousers, and stomped to the door.

Hermione propped herself up on one elbow and listened to hear what happened.

“Potter?” Draco’s voice had all sleepiness stripped out of it. She could hear him put his mask on and hear the arrogance and conceit of his defensiveness settled into the timbre of his voice. “What do you want?”

“Merlin, did you just get out of bed?” Harry didn’t bother to hide his amusement. “Fortunately the game doesn’t start for an hour so we have time to stop and pick up some coffee and donuts.”

“Game?” Draco asked. “What game? You are you going on about, Potter?”

“The Quidditch game,” Harry said. “Get dressed, grab your broom, and let’s go.”

Hermione put a hand over her mouth to try to hold in her laughter as Draco said, “What?” She tiptoed to the door and peeked out. Harry was leaning up against the wall, glasses askew as usual and his hair looking as if he hadn’t even bothered to try to brush it. He had a takeaway cup of what she guessed was hot chocolate in one hand. Draco, in nothing but trousers, was staring at him.

“Pick-up Quidditch. You’re on my team which is, I admit, a bit rough for you since Ginny Weasley _and_ George are planning on playing on the other side today so we’ll probably get our arses handed to us but winners have to buy the drinks at lunch so it all works out.”

“Potter,” Draco said, “No one will play Quidditch with me. Death Eater. Remember?”

“Most pathetic Death Eater ever, maybe,” Potter said. “If there was a Hall of Fame of evil, Malfoy, you wouldn’t be getting voted in, trust me. You’re the water boy of the Death Eater world. You’re the kid whose dad signed him up for youth sports because he wanted to coach, not because the kid was any good at it.”

“I weirdly feel like I should be offended by that,” Draco said. 

“But Quidditch,” Harry continued, “Quidditch you’re good at. I should know.”

“Get your broom,” Hermione said from the doorway where she stood. Draco spun and looked at her. “Go on,” she said. “No one will tell you no, Draco.”

“It’s always no,” he said.

“Is he always this slow?” Harry demanded, looking across the room at Hermione. “And put some clothes on. What is this? The Malfoy-Granger peep show? One of you with no shirt. One of you in just a shirt – “

“And knickers,” Hermione said. “Don’t exaggerate.”  
  


“ – It’s like the world hates me.”

“Potter,” Draco said, “No one will play with me. Just… it’s nice of you, if peculiar as hell, to invite me but if I come then we won’t have a game.”

“Then it’ll be you and me vs. the Weasleys,” Harry said with a shrug, “and they’ll probably still beat us but at least the lunch bill will be lower.” Draco didn’t move and Harry added, his voice so kind as to be almost unbearable, “Don’t you get it, Malfoy? Anyone who won’t play with you isn’t welcome.”

“Get you broom, you idiot,” Hermione said. “I’ll see you after lunch at my place and you can bore me senseless with Quidditch talk.” She added, “Blaise and I have a coffee date.”

“A coffee _non-_date_,_” Blaise corrected, pushing past Harry to enter the flat. “Ginny kicked me out thirty minutes ago; aren’t you lot supposed to be off?”

“You’re not playing?” Draco asked.

“This early?” Blaise gave an elaborate shudder. “No, thank you. Hermione, why aren’t you wearing clothes? We can’t go out for coffee with you looking like that.”

. . . . . . . . . .

The coffee that was not a date mostly involved Hermione making sympathetic noises as Blaise asked why she’d been so cruel as to introduce him to Ginny in the first place, that it wasn’t fair to meet the perfect woman and have her only interested in sex.

Not, as Blaise hastened to assure her, that the sex was bad. Far from it.

“You know,” Hermione said, “aren’t there some things you probably aren’t supposed to share? Pureblood rules and all?”

“I’m not suppose to have anything _to_ share,” he said. “But she’s _glorious_.”

“Funny,” Hermione said, “she’s said much the same thing about you.”

Blaise leaned forward across the table, clearly hoping she’d elaborate but Hermione just laughed. “You could try asking the woman if she’d be interested in more than your –“

“Stop,” Blaise said, holding up a hand. “I cannot endure Theo’s sister saying certain words to me. Even if you and Draco have a dozen curly-haired blond brats running around I’m going to pretend you are somehow conceiving them via immaculate conception.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very strange?” Hermione asked.

. . . . . . . . . .

Ginny stretched her legs out in front of her and dipped her spoon into the ice cream carton again. “It’s not that,” she sighed. “I didn’t expect to actually _like_ him, you know? I mean, I expected to enjoy a good shag because Merlin knows the man’s been around, and… but he’s just adorable. That hilarious fussy concern about proprieties ten minutes after he’s had his mouth on my – “

“Some details you don’t need to share,” Hermione pointed out.

Ginny laughed. “Fine. And the coffee thing? I gave him a bunch of wild mustard plants my mother had ripped out of her garden because the things are bloody invasive this year and he acted like I’d laid the wealth of the world at his feet. It’s just the most… but you know how he is about purebloods.” She dug her spoon back into the container and shoved it in her mouth before saying, her words partially muffled, “He’s got that good girl/bad girl thing going on in his head and you know which one I am.”

Hermione sighed and yanked the ice cream away from Ginny. “Would you go over there right now and tell this to him? Because I had to listen to him complain over coffee you only wanted him for cock and now you’re whinging that you want more than cock and, for the love of Merlin, if you two would just talk to _each other_ about something other than cock, maybe you wouldn’t need to eat an entire pint of this without sharing any.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“We’re doing what?” 

Hermione squinted at Draco in something akin to disbelief. She wasn’t sure what had happened at that Quidditch game but the man had come over to her flat nearly bouncing with happiness. He’d picked up the ice cream container Ginny had left on the counter and thrown it away without paying much attention to what he was doing because he was so busy prattling on about some move he’d made, something he’d never managed to pull off in school, but he’d done it and passed some ball or other to Harry – not, she noted, Potter – and the man had feinted and at that point Hermione had stopped paying attention and had just pulled her feet up on the couch and watched him talk. Had watched him _be happy._

It was good to see.

She foresaw a lot of making encouraging ‘mmm” noises in the future while he talked about this ridiculous game and she thought about other things. Still, not paying attention sometimes didn’t work out for a person, especially when that person’s fiancé said what she could have sworn sounded like, “We’re going out to dinner with Harry and Pansy, I assume that’s okay.”

“Pansy?” she asked. “_Harry_ and Pansy?”

“She was at the game,” Draco said, either ignoring or oblivious to her tone. “They’re still together and she suggested we join them and I thought you’d like – “

“We’re going on a double date with Harry and Pansy?”

Draco stopped talking and blinked at her a few times. “Was I not supposed to do that?” he asked.

Hermione sighed and rubbed her face with one hand. “No, it’s fine. Where?”

“Some new place called Pensamiento. Spanish food, I think. She was very smug about being able to get a reservation so I assume it’s trendy and hip.”

Hermione began mentally flipping through things she could wear that counted as trendy while still covering knees and shoulders. “Tonight,” she muttered. “We’re doing this _tonight_. In a few hours.”

“Were we doing something else?” Draco asked.

She sighed at how stupid men were. “I’m going to go wash my hair and try to figure out what to wear. Just… read or something.”

Draco looked confused as she stalked out of the room muttering about trendy restaurants and pureblood rules and the impossibility of combining the two.

. . . . . . . . . .

She settled on a pair of silver capri pants, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket to keep the chill of the early evening away. Draco eyed her and said, “Shiny.”

“Metallics are in,” she said.

“If you say so,” he muttered, holding the door for her. 

Pansy’s reaction was much more gratifying. She ran her eyes over Hermione and said, “Vogue. 3 month ago. Nice. At least I won’t be ashamed to be seen with you.”

“It’s _shiny_,” Draco said again.

“I assume you keep him around for reasons other than his astute observations,” Pansy said to Hermione before yanking a camera off the neck of a man hiding the in shrubbery outside the restaurant. “I think we’ve had this discussion,” she said to the man as she opened the camera, incinerated the film, and then threw the entire mess to the concrete where it broke into several pieces.

The photographer made a squawking noise and said, outraged, “That’s destruction of my property!”

“And stalking’s a crime,” Pansy said, “And I have a better lawyer than you do. Now go off and harass someone stupid enough to put up with you.” She looked at Harry who had a bemused expression on his face and said, “Well, are you going to get the door for me or not, Potter?”

“Of course,” Harry said, and opened the black door that was set flush with the black painted front of the windowless restaurant. 

“This place looks like it’s out of a Halloween story,” Draco muttered to Hermione as he eyed the blood-red lettering spelling out the name of the restaurant with no other clue as to what might be inside. “Are we sure they aren’t luring people in here to drain their blood for a coven of vampires or something? Are we _sure_ this is a restaurant?”

“Merlin, you’re so conservative,” Pansy said before she flounced over to the maitre-de and gave him her name. She turned back around and said, “Live a little, Malfoy.”

The inside of the restaurant was as black as the outside, with black walls that had been covered in black and white photographs of Spain and dim lighting that would have made reading the menu nearly impossible if Pansy hadn’t waved a waiter over with an imperious gesture, fired off a series of what sounded like complicated orders in Spanish, and then leaned back in her padded seat and smirked at the befuddled Draco. “Honestly, Hermione, is he always this staid?” she asked. “There is life outside ice cream parlors and sedate French institutions, you know.”

“Give him a break,” Harry said, watching the man approaching them with a bottle of red wine with the air of a man who’s been marooned on an island and just spotted a rescue boat. “He’s not used to you.”

“He should be,” Pansy said. “He’s known me since he was still peeing his pants at parties.”

“My gratitude that I didn’t meet you until I was housebroken has just increased,” Harry said as the waiter poured a sample of wine into Harry’s glass. He passed it over to Pansy who sipped it, nodded, and then, as the waiter stood there still waiting for Harry’s verdict, said, “You can pour for the rest of them. Potter wouldn’t know a good Spanish red from Tesco boxed wine and Draco’s still reeling from the idea that his girlfriend has better fashion sense than his mother.”

“Fiancé,” Hermione said.

“Did you make it official?” Pansy asked. “I mean, it was just a matter of time but I would have expected you to make the bastard suffer longer. You’re a disgrace to your vagina.”

Harry made a choking sound and put his wine glass down and blinked a few times.

Pansy continued as if he hadn’t made a sound, “Will you get a photo of Narcissa’s face when you tell her? I wonder if the news her baby boy is marrying a princess will make her come on the spot. She was afraid he was gay for a while with the way he was always going on about you in school, you know.” She took a sip of the wine and glared at the waiter. “Are you still here?”

The man scurried away.

“She thought I was gay?” Draco asked, flabbergasted.

“Well, that’s what she told my mother though the way these old biddies gossip who knows if it’s what she really thought. You did kind of drone on about Potter when you were a kid.” Pansy eyed Hermione. “Don’t suppose you’d be up for a foursome? I’ve always wondered if girls eat pussy better. And Malfoy really did seem to have a thing for – “

“Are you drunk?” Hermione asked, cutting the other woman off.

“Not yet,” Pansy said cheerfully. “Give me time and I will be.” She raised her glass. “This is a fabulous vintage but, like all good things, should be consumed with vigorous enjoyment, not with prissy little sips.” She took a generous swallow and then added, “which means I will be quite pissed shortly.”

Draco eyed Harry and mouthed, “Are you sure?’ while tipping his head toward Pansy. The bespectacled man gave Pansy a look that was very nearly doting and Draco groaned. “Better you than me,” he muttered as the waiter, eyeing Pansy nervously, slipped a platter of toasted bread slices with a dish of anchovies and a dish of chopped tomatoes onto the table.

“You’re the one who took up with Hermione,” Harry said, reaching for a starter. “Ask her about house elves some time.”

Hermione picked up one of the slices of bread and mimed throwing it at Harry while Draco swallowed a laugh.

“You’re going to throw food?” Pansy asked as Harry spooned toppings onto the bread he’d picked up and handed it to her. “Is this some Muggle no-manners thing?” She took a bite and made a purring sound. “This is so good. Almost better than sex.”

“I’m glad it’s only almost better,” Draco said as he took a bite of his. “Because if you were losing out to a starter, Potter, well, I think I’m just going to be grateful I wasn’t really in love with you in school.”

“My heart is broken,” Harry said. “Still, I will endeavor to move on.”

“I thought good pureblood girls weren’t supposed to have premarital sex,” Hermione said.

Pansy gaped at her then kicked Draco under the table. “What have you been telling this poor girl?” she demanded. “Oh Merlin, Hermione. Good pureblood girls do anything we want. We have the power and the money and everyone else can go hang. We just don’t get _caught_. Do you not know how to do a contraceptive charm?” 

“I do,” Hermione said, sipping her wine. “I’ve just been subject to a little much Blaise hysteria – “

“Oh _Blaise_,” Pansy said, as if that explained everything. “Well, he has issues.”

“And Theo…”

“Well, he’s your _brother_. You can’t expect him to be encouraging you to jump into Malfoy’s bed. That would be creepy.” She held her hand out expectantly and Harry passed over another little toast with tomatoes and anchovies.

“How come you aren’t making my little toast things for me?” Hermione asked Draco who sighed and began spooning toppings onto a slice of bread for her.

“I was under the impression that any man I so much as touched in public could march over to Theo’s and demand a betrothal contract,” Hermione said.

Pansy shrugged. “They can ask but what do you care? ‘Oh noes,’” she said, her voice a ridiculous whine, “’I’ve hurt widdle Graham Montague’s fweelings. Whatever shall I do, poor baby thinks I led him on.’” She snorted. “Some of those patriarchal idiots could use a good kick in the assumptions.”

Draco sighed. “Pansy,” he said as he handed a starter to Hermione, “Theo might not appreciate having to fight duels defending her honor. We’ve had a hard enough time getting her to even try to play by the rules. Could you not - ”

“Oh, don’t be absurd,” Pansy said. “No one’s pathetic enough to actually insist on a duel anymore. And if they did Theo’s capable of handling himself. Remember when he – “

“Enough,” Draco said in a choked voice. “This is all a moot point because if Graham Montague hits on her I will personally punch him in his miserable face.”

“So violent,” Pansy said. “Your Muggle-raised hellion is rubbing off on you.” She smirked at him. “I like it.”

“What did Theo do that Draco doesn’t want you to tell me?” Hermione asked, taking a sip from her wine.

Pansy grinned at her as she leaned forward onto her elbows. Harry looked interested and Draco horrified. “How much is it worth to you for me to keep my mouth shut?” Pansy asked Draco. “Because I still have the photographs.”

Just then the waiter brought over a large platter and plates and the table was momentarily distracted by the need to shift glasses around to make room for the new additions and to spoon food onto their plates. After the waiter left Draco hissed, “I know about Marcus and if you don’t keep your mouth shut neither will I.”

Pansy smiled beatifically. “Theo never did anything,” she said. “I’m just yanking Draco’s chain.” She took a bite. “Hermione,” she said. “We should go shopping sometime. Just us girls.”

“Pansy,” Draco said in a warning tone.

“What?” she said. “I’m changing the subject. Honestly, there’s no pleasing some people.” She tossed her hair. “Thank goodness I can keep Potter here happy with just – “

“Pansy!” Harry said in a strangled tone.

“How was Quidditch?” Hermione asked in a desperate need to keep from knowing anything about Harry and Pansy’s sex life. Draco grabbed onto the lifeline with enthusiasm, as did Harry, and the two of them talked nonstop about obscure Quidditch rules until dessert.

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love and thanks to JennyFeltonic who helped me with a translation issue!


	20. Chapter 20

Theo grinned at Hermione’s utterly flummoxed expression. “But you just met,” she said for what might have been the fifteenth time.

“So?” Theo said. “You and Draco seem to adore one another and you – “

“We’ve known each other since we were eleven,” Hermione said in frustration. “It’s not the same.”

“And he was such a sweetheart to you, too,” Theo said. “Where is the prat, anyway?”

“He’s not a prat,” Hermione said, “And he’s visiting his mother. I opted not to see her.”

Theo smirked at her as he leaned back in the booth at their favorite Thai restaurant. The elephant above his head seemed to share his smug mirth and Hermione looked back and forth from the art to her brother in exasperation. “But _married_?” she asked again, getting away from the uncomfortable topic of Narcissa Malfoy and back to the idea of her brother and the ring he had on his hand, a ring she was fairly sure came from a toy shop. “To _Luna_?”

Theo took a sip of his tea and said, his tone serious now, “If it were a generation ago I might have met her at the alter.”

“Yes, well, and isn’t that a good reason to get married quickly. Because people used to endure arranged marriages.” Hermione rolled her eyes. “You can’t really expect me to be sympathetic to that argument.”

“And I adore her,” he said. “She’s… you know how most people care about the Nott name and Nott money?”

“To my everlasting annoyance, yes,” Hermione said, waiting for him to get to the point.

“She doesn’t,” Theo said simply.

Hermione studied him for a moment. “I just want you to be happy,” she said at last. “And if Luna makes you happy then I’ll be there.” She took a bite of her soup. “Assuming I’m invited.” She took another bite and added, in a teasing voice, “Where are you two registered, anyway? Cranville Quincey’s Magical Junkshop?”

“Registered?” Theo gave her a blank look.

“Uh, a shop where you’ve listed off things you’d like as wedding gifts?” Hermione said, equally confused. “I mean, I don’t _really_ think you’d register at a junk shop; I was just giving you a hard time because Luna’s so quirky she’d hardly register at just a mainstream house wares place.”

“Is this a Muggle thing?” Theo asked right as Hermione said, “Not a wizarding thing?”

When she nodded he looked appalled. “Muggles actually list off what they expect you to get them as presents? That may be the tackiest thing I’ve ever heard of. Tell me you’re not being serious.” At her flabbergasted expression he sighed. “You’re being serious, aren’t you?”

“How do wizards do it?” she asked. “I mean, the idea is to get people what they need to set up a household.”

“Galleons, usually,” he said with a shrug. “And some kind of thoughtful trinket, something that made you think of the couple. What did you get Ron and Lavender?”

She smiled. “A little amethyst vase,” she said. “Draco picked it out, got it at some art auction. And I guess a check? Maybe? He tucked something into a note and told me to let him handle the tedious wedding etiquette things.”

“Galleons and a trinket,” Theo said with approval. 

“I think that vase was a bit more than a trinket,” she said. “I remember the price tag.”

“But it wasn’t _useful_, right? It wasn’t a set of dishes or anything tasteless like that?”

Hermione began to laugh and at Theo’s befuddled look she just said, “Sometimes the culture clashes are just really funny to me. In the Muggle world a set of dishes is _exactly _an appropriate present for a wedding.”

Theo shook his head at the bizarre ways of Muggles and asked Hermione if she’d like to get some ice cream before he went back to pick up Luna, who was off trying to convince the _Prophet_ to publish a series of blurry photographs she’d taken that she was quite sure proved the existence of one of mysterious creatures. They headed off, arm in arm, money left on the restaurant table, as Theo asked more questions about Muggle gift giving protocols, becoming more and more bemused with every answer. 

When they got to Diagon Alley the inevitable photographer popped up from a seat by a fountain and snapped a photograph after checking to make sure Pansy wasn’t with them. Hermione glared at the man who scuttled away before she could confiscate his film or snatch his camera.

“I hate those vultures,” she muttered to Theo. “I can see the head line now, ‘Nott Heiress and Her Brother Continue to Exist.’”

“’When Will Nott Heir Wed?’” Theo asked, more than a hint of bitterness in his tone. “’Spotted Out Again but the Lovely Girl on His Arm is Merely His Sister.’”

“Not planning on inviting the press to your nuptials?” Hermione asked as she squeezed his hand.

“No. Certainly not.” Theo actually snickered a little before he added. “It’s going to be a traditional wedding.” Hermione blinked at him a few times. “_Very_ traditional.”

“Oh,” she said, then, “Oh.”

“It’s what she wants,” Theo said with a shrug as he held open the door to the ice cream parlour. “After you, sis.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione passed over the dish of ice cream, her second foray into ice cream in one day, and Draco shoved his spoon into it. He’d come back from visiting his mother morose and unwilling to talk about why so she’d applied the same solution she’d tried with Ginny when the woman had been annoyingly whiny about Blaise: sugar and milk.

It seemed to be working.

“It’s not that I don’t love her,” he said at last.

“Of course you love her,” Hermione said. “She’s your mother.”

“And it’s not like her childhood was a bed of roses,” he continued. “I mean, her parents actually disowned her sister for marrying a Mud – Muggle-born.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “Harry’s Teddy’s godfather, after all.” She nudged him with her foot. “I know your family’s got its history.”

“You could call it that,” Draco said, taking another bite of the ice cream before he added, “She just acts the way she knows how. I mean, I’m sure my father had shite parents too.”

“That’s usually how it works,” Hermione agreed. “People pass down their biases and raise kids the same way they were raised.”

“I won’t,” Draco said. “If we have a kid and he wants to marry a Muggle-born I won’t say boo. I won’t give him a hard time for getting worse grades than a Muggle-born and I sure as shite won’t kill his fucking dog.”

Hermione, who had been leaning against the arm of the couch, sat upright at that. “What?” she asked. 

Draco didn’t look up, just plunged his spoon back into the carton. “That was what he did. If I got attached to anything and then didn’t measure up he took it away. Toys. Books. I never got another pet after that. Didn’t want one. I’m not stupid. Didn’t even get a familiar when I went off to Hogwarts.” He huffed out a breath of air. “I even envied Longbottom that stupid toad but I knew what would happen if I got one.”

“Draco.” Hermione seemed like she was at a loss for words.

“It’s okay,” Draco said, still just looking at the spoon in his hand. “I mean, I realize it wasn’t okay, of course. He was… he was not a good father. But I’m okay.” His hand shook a little as he added, “Don’t make this about me not being okay.”

‘Oh, you’re fine,” Hermione said. “Your father won’t be when I’m done with him but you are just fine.”

Draco swallowed before he asked, “Do you think I could meet Teddy? I mean, he’s… he’s kind of my cousin and – “

Hermione nodded and when he met her eyes she blinked away the tears so he couldn’t see them. “I can arrange that,” she said. “You know how Molly is. She loves to feed people and any excuse to have little ones around. If I tell you you’ve never met him she’ll – “

“You don’t think m…my aunt Andromeda would mind?” Draco asked, his voice carefully devoid of emotion despite the small stutter. “I know she and my mother have never reconciled.”

“I think she’ll be really happy to meet you,” Hermione said. “I think she’ll be really, really happy.” She paused before adding, as idly as she could. “I’d like to meet your mother.”

Draco began, for the first time since he’d arrived, to smile. “You know she thinks of you as the perfect little pureblood princess, right?”

“Pity,” Hermione said. “Since I’m still opinionated little me.”

“Pansy’s opinionated,” Draco muttered.

“Then maybe I’ll come as less of a shock to mummy,” Hermione said. “Since she must be used to pureblood princesses who don’t have filters if she’s spent any time with Pansy.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Draco stood off to one side in the circle of oak trees, trying not to look as uncomfortable as he felt. When Theo had said Luna wanted a ‘traditional wedding’ he’d assumed that meant, well, not this. He kept his eyes on the tips of his shoes as the very naked bride and her very naked groom exchanged vows under the moonlight. 

Hermione hadn’t warned him, something about which he planned to whine for days. Weeks. He would whine for weeks that she had known her brother planned to get married bare arse and hadn’t warned him. She’d let him know it would be small. “They’ve already filed the paperwork,” she’d said, “And we’ll be the only witnesses to their vows. You know how Theo hates how everyone just wants a piece of him because he’s a Nott.”

“I think that’s you,” Draco had said.

“Him too,” she’d replied, “he’s just getting more comfortable admitting it these days.” She’d looked smug. “Harry and Pansy help. They’re so adamant – “

“You mean _Pansy’s_ so adamant.”

“- about not being taken advantage of and it’s rubbing off on Theo.”

“Never would have thought Harry Potter and Theo would have become such mates,” Draco had admitted. He spared a moment now, as he admired the way the moonlight hit the leaves, to wish Harry and Pansy were here in the thought that awkwardness shared is awkwardness decreased. Then he considered Pansy and decided to be grateful it was just himself and Hermione after all. Hermione, at least, seemed to have decided to solve this by keeping her eyes above the waist of her brother and his fiancé at all times and had not made any comments about Theo’s genitalia, something Pansy surely would have done. 

He listened to them recite their vows and thought that surely that was the end, right? Now that they were wed they’d put on robes or something, right?

Wrong.

Luna skipped off to some basket she’d hidden outside the circle and came back with a pitcher of –

“Lemonade, anyone?” she asked. “I have biscuits too, but they might be a bit stale.”

“Did you bring cups?” Theo asked, still, Draco noted, very much naked.

“Oh,” Luna looked briefly discomforted. “I forgot glasses. We could transfigure stuff or –“

“We can just share the pitcher,” Theo said, wrapping an arm around her. “Might as well be lazy.”

Luna stood up on tiptoes and kissed her new husband’s nose; the movement made her torso stretch out and her breasts bobbed in a way that was far too inviting in a mate’s wife.

“Could you put a robe on?” Draco finally got out. “Please.”

Luna tilted her head to the side and smiled.

. . . . . . . . .

“Hermione,” Draco whined once they got back, “There wasn’t even alcohol. If I’m going to go to a naked wedding there really needs to be alcohol.”

She laughed and he growled at her. 

“I mean it,” he said. “That was unfair. Unkind. Un… un lots of things. Unclothed. Hermione, I had to stare at Theo’s wife _unclothed._”

“Aren’t you happy for Theo?” she asked, crossing to the cupboard that served as a liquor cabinet and pulling out a bottle of Ogden’s Finest. “Luna’s perfect for him.”

“Of course I’m happy for him, it’s just a bit of a whirlwind romance,” Draco muttered, taking the glass of whiskey she handed him gratefully. “They just met.”

“When you know, you know,” Hermione said with a shrug as she tugged him back over to their couch. “Want a wedding like that?”

Draco sat next to her and snorted as she lay down and rested her head on his lap, her feet kicked out over the edge of the sofa. 

“”Just think of all the money we’d save,” she teased. “No caterer, no photographer, no programs, no portrait – “

“Theo told me she had a portrait made,” Draco said. “After they finally put robes back on and we were drinking that very non-alcoholic lemonade. I guess they plan to hang it in their bedroom though because she’s naked and, uh, not shy in it.” He took a sip from his tumbler and ran a hand though Hermione’s curls. “And I am not getting married naked.”

“It _is_ traditional,” Hermione said, a sparkle in her eye that made him groan.

“And you’re _such_ a traditional girl,” he retorted. “When I think ‘Hermione Granger’ I think, ‘hidebound traditionalist’.”

“We could do the French poetry thing,” she said.

“Now you’re trying to torture me,” Draco said. “Is this part of your ongoing revenge for seven years of my being an utter prat? Because it’s working.”

“Or,” Hermione said, “we could just file paperwork with the Ministry, do our vows in a government office, and run off somewhere for a honeymoon and not tell anyone.”

Draco let out a sigh of relief. “If you want,” he said.

“Does next Tuesday work in your schedule?” she asked.

“Don’t you have to work?” he asked

She made a shrug where she lay, her shoulders rubbing against his thighs as she moved them. “You’re rich. I’m rich. My job is uninteresting. Maybe we could be shamelessly wealthy for a while. Travel. Bring Blaise back mustards from all over. Be not in Britain where every trip for ice cream results in a photograph in the papers.”

“Really?” Draco asked.

“Really,” she said. “Just as soon as we visit your father.”


	21. Chapter 21

Hermione eyed the ring on Ginny’s hand. It sparkled and sent tiny dots of light dancing along the wall where light from the sun pouring in the coffee shop window. Ginny had ordered what had to be the most obnoxious drink Hermione had ever heard: an iced, half-caff, ristretto, venti, 4-pump, sugar free, cinnamon, dolce soy skinny latte. Hermione had given her a look and she’d muttered, “Blaise is a bad influence.”

“So… are we going to ignore the fact that you seem to have one of the crown jewels on your hand?” Hermione asked as she took a sip of her very plain coffee.

“It’s not _that_ big,” Ginny said as she held her hand out and sighed with pleasure as she admired her ring. 

“It’s fucking outrageous,” Hermione said with a grin. “It’s beyond over the top. That rock might be obscene.”

“Go big or go home,” Ginny said with a shrug. “And Blaise is certainly – “

“More information than I needed,” Hermione nearly screeched, planting her hands over her ears. “Oh my God. What am I going to do with you?”

“Tell me about Draco?” Ginny suggested.

Hermione sniffed. “A pureblood princess doesn’t kiss and tell,” she said. “But I have, shall we say, no complaints.” She took a sip of her drink. “At all.”

“So ferret boy…?”

“All those years of hurling insults seem to have given him an agile and limber tongue,” Hermione said. “But back to your ring?”

“Next summer, I think,” Ginny said. “My mother wants to do a big wedding, rather like Ron’s only, you know, not at all. And I admit it’s pathetic but I want the big white dress and the fawning and the whole thing. I do.”

“And Blaise?”

Ginny smiled. “He doesn’t care. He claims to hate attention but you know he adores it, really. And my mother _loves_ him. He claimed his own mother never cooked – “

“Probably true,” Hermione said.

“ – and, well, that was all she needed to hear. She’s practically adopted him. She’ll have every Slytherin boy who sneered at us in school round her table before long.”

“Do them all some good,” Hermione said. “And all their kids will be de facto Weaselys. Yours. Mine. Theo’s.”

Ginny laughed. “I bet Lucius Malfoy will choke on his own arrogance when he finds that out.”

“We should be so lucky,” Hermione said.

. . . . . . . . . .

Before she faced down Lucius, Hermione decided to get what she assumed would be the lesser of the unpleasant parental meetings out of the way and accepted Narcissa Malfoy’s invitation to tea.

It was awful. Genuinely awful, mostly because Narcissa seemed to have no idea that everything that came out of her mouth was offensive. She told Hermione she’d redone the room where ‘that awkwardness’ happened and Hermione found her mouth dropping open at referring to ‘the time my sister used an unforgivable curse on you and then carved a word into your arm’ as ‘awkward’.

“How nice,” was all she’d murmured.

Narcissa expressed surprise that Hermione had such lovely manners given her handicap of being raised by Muggles but added that, “blood will tell, of course. You certainly don’t act like a Muggle or a Muggle-born.”

Hermione had taken another sip of her tea and wondered how long she had to stay before she could escape.

Narcissa asked Hermione for her opinion on several Muggle issues as if Hermione were somehow the voice for all Muggle-borns everywhere. “I really… I’m not sure everyone with Muggle parents, or a single Muggle parent, feels exactly the same way,” Hermione stumbled. “People have different ideas about how things should work.”

“Of course,” Narcissa said, “And it’s not like you’re even really Muggle-born.” She smiled as she took a biscuit off the platter on the table and set it on her plate. “You’re like us.” She took a sip of her tea. “And Hogwarts has been such a good influence. You even sound like one of us.”

Hermione nearly choked on her tea and resisted the urge to drop into a Liverpool accent just to see if Narcissa would react.

“Since the war, naturally, I’ve tried to reach out,” Narcissa added. “Despite being somewhat inconvenienced in my mobility, I have several half-blood friends now.”

Hermione counted to ten in her head and missed the next part of what Narcissa said, tuning in again at, “- and you’re so slim. I worry about big girls like Millicent Bulstrode – did you know her in school? So unhealthy and, of course, the poor thing will never find a husband looking like that.” Narcissa patted her mouth with her napkin. “And gluttony is the sign of a weak character, and, naturally, Malfoys are never weak.”

Hermione struggled for a response and then gasped as if she suddenly remembered something. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Malfoy,” she said. “I’d completely forgotten I had agreed to meet Draco after his Quidditch game today. I’m so sorry. I don’t know where my head’s at these days.”

Narcissa stood and smiled. “I’m sure the excitement of your new engagement has you all agog,” she said. “Young love is just beautiful and I’m so happy to welcome you to the family. You’re just the _perfect_ girl for Draco.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said, a smile plastered on her face. “I’m so happy to hear you think so.”

“Pureblood, beautiful, intelligent.” Narcissa smiled at her. “Just perfect.”

Hermione escaped.

. . . . . . . . . .

“Blaise,” Hermione said. She’d come in the door of Draco’s flat, shut it behind her, and was standing, slightly stunned, as if not sure where to go or what to do.

“What?”

“I’ve just come from tea with Narcissa Malfoy.”

He looked at her and, without saying anything, pulled a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and made her a drink. She slammed it back and stared into the flat without focusing on anything for a moment before she asked, “Is she always like that?”

Blaise poured her another and nodded.

“Merlin,” Hermione muttered. “I wanted to cringe for her she was so awful. And so oblivious to how awful she was. I thought I’d go in and be assertive and opinionated and let her know how I felt about things and instead I just kept trying not to choke to death on things that she said.”

“Oh, I know,” Blaise said. “It’s the Narcissa Malfoy effect. She does that to almost everyone. She once told me I didn’t sound black.”

Hermione buried her face in the hand that wasn’t clutching her drink. “And this will be my mother-in-law.”

“You could have married Ron,” Blaise said. “I mean, it’s too late now but – “

“Oh, don’t be disgusting,” Hermione said, lifting her head and taking a generous swallow from her glass. “He’s practically my brother.”

. . . . . . . . . .

When they got to Azkaban Draco gaped as Hermione – his Hermione – flirted with the guards. She smiled and charmed and offered them a basket of food because she was quite sure the cafeteria was just dreadful.

“What?” she asked him as they sat in the visitor’s room and waited for Lucius Malfoy to be brought in. 

“Nothing,” Draco said as quickly as he could. “You’re just a little terrifying sometimes, that’s all.”

She took his hand and squeezed it. “Good terrifying or bad terrifying?” she asked.

“I think,” Draco said as he heard the sounds of the guards walking a prisoner down the hall toward the visitor’s room, “that it’s about to be very bad terrifying, just not for me.”

She let go of his hand and patted it. “I knew you were smart,” she said as she folded her hands in her lap and put a bland and pleasant smile on her face.

Lucius Malfoy eyed both of them when he came in but he didn’t speak until he’d settled himself into his seat. Prison had been less hard on him than one might expect; his sneer was still in place and his hair lustrous. His attitude was similarly unchanged. “Draco,” he said, sounding as though he’d just bitten into something unpleasant. “To what do I owe this visit?”

“I believe we are making the traditional ‘introduce your fiancé to your father’ trek,” Hermione said, sparing Draco the necessity of answering. “It might be a tad more awkward than usual because you are in prison and I was tortured in your home, but Merlin forbid we don’t observe all the rituals of pureblood elitism.” She smiled at him. “We’ve met, of course. I believe the first time was in a bookshop.” She tilted her head to the side as if considering the matter. “As I recall you made veiled comments on the general unsuitability of my ancestry. So rude. I’m grateful Draco has better manners than you.”

“You will have to refresh my memory,” Lucius said. “I can hardly be expected to remember all the filth that’s intruded upon my life in the past years.”

“Really?” Hermione’s tone remained light and airy, as if she were puzzled but not about anything of any import. “So many women are tortured in your home you can’t keep them all straight?” She made a tsking sound and turned to Draco. “And here I thought I was special.”

“You are very special to me,” he said, his tone grave as he tried to repress the urge to laugh at the furious expression stealing over his father’s face. He’d dreaded this meeting; he’d expected to leave it abandoned after this woman met his father because that would be a sensible reaction upon meeting Lucius Malfoy. Instead Hermione seemed like she was enjoying herself far too much. She sounded as if months of built up fury were being unleashed upon the man seated across the table in the politest way possible.

For a woman who continued to roll her eyes at much of the culture of the world her birthright had landed her in, Hermione Granger was remarkably good at pureblood social vivisection. If he hadn’t known better, Draco would have assumed she’d been raised at the elbow of one of the nastier matrons he knew, one of the ones whose sweet words masked knives and whose slightest frown at Ministry events could destroy careers.

“Isn’t she a bit beneath your touch?” Lucius Malfoy asked.

“So you do remember!” Hermione sounded delighted. “Though you might not be up to date on one _wee_ point.” She turned back to Draco. “Do you want to tell him or shall I?”

Draco looked at his father and said, in the coldest drawl he could muster, “She was given up for adoption at birth. It quite turns out that she’s a pureblood. A Nott so, no, not beneath my touch at all.” He paused and then added, “Not that it matters because I would be sadly unworthy of her even if she were an actual Muggle, much less a Muggle-born witch of surpassing power.”

Hermione pulled a blush to her cheeks that would have made the most artificially simpering debutante proud. “Draco,” she cooed, “You say the sweetest things.” Then she looked at Lucius and smiled. It was the coldest look on Draco had ever seen on her face and he was once again reminded that this woman had, indeed, withstood torture, that this woman had robbed a bank, that this woman had been pivotal in bringing down the darkest wizard anyone could remember. "You see, Lucius – you don’t mind if I call you Lucius, do you? - my blood's as pure as yours," she said. "It's as pure as the most stringent bigot could hope for."

"You're still a bastard," Lucius said.

"Technically not," she said, the icy smile still on her face. "Thanks to some legal shenanigans Theo pulled, I'm as legitimate as Draco." She paused for a moment and then, with a delighted look on her face, she continued. "Of course, I'm much crueler than he ever could have been. For example, it gives me great pleasure to tell you that your grandchildren will be as pure as you ever could have hoped for. They will be, in fact, unblemished scions of the Sacred 28."

"How is that supposed to be cruel?" Lucius asked with a sneer.

Draco noted that though Hermione didn't actually lick her lips in anticipation he could almost see her perform the smug little gesture in her mind. "Because you will never, ever see them," she said. "Because I will raise them to abhor every value that you care about. They won't care about blood status. They won't care about the Sacred 28 or any of your ridiculous traditions or rules. They will grow up playing with Harry Potter's children. Teddy Lupin will be their babysitter. You might want to say goodbye to Draco because, after today, you will never see him again. You will sit here, alone, in your comfortless cell and know that everything you have believed in, everything you suffered for, and everything you will continue to suffer for until you die, was a pointless waste. Your life, Lucius Malfoy, has been a pointless waste. And I hope, from the bottom of my heart, that a great deal of that life remains to you."

"It's a pity Draco couldn't have been more like you," Lucius said with a brutal look in the direction of his son. "Then, perhaps, he would have been worthy of the name Malfoy."

Draco watched Hermione's mouth tighten. "Say goodbye, Draco," she said.

"I'll pass," he said.

She let him lead her to the door, their manners perfect examples of Sacred 28 traditions, but when Draco’s hand was at the latch of the door Hermione turned back to Lucius to say one more thing. "I plan to ask the guards to look into whether or not you have any contraband in your cell; certainly no family members have brought you any permissible luxuries so anything you have beyond basic prison amenities is against the rules. I'm sure they will be pleased to accommodate my request what with my being a war heroine and all. They seem to like me." 

She smiled coolly as Lucius narrowed his eyes and said, "You bitch."

"Be careful Lucius," she said. "I can make it even worse."


	22. Chapter 22

That Sunday the Burrow had been decorated with flags stuck in every possible spot and the scraps of silk waved in the morning breeze making the house and yard look like an endlessly shifting kaleidoscope. Draco’s shoulders were hunched up by his ears and he tugged the sleeve of his shirt down over his wrist again, as though hiding the Mark would somehow make his past equally invisible. “I’m not sure this is a good idea,” he said again and Hermione leaned into him as reassuringly as she could. Playing Quidditch with Harry was one thing. Having Ginny in a silk robe at breakfast in his flat, her hair up in a messy top-knot as she argued with Blaise about some obscure coffee point that no one but them cared about was one thing. Going to the home of the family he’d been raised to despise, the family who’d been raised to despise him, was another. 

“You said you wanted to meet your aunt,” Hermione said, “and your cousin.”

“I know,” Draco muttered, “but I was thinking perhaps a nice quiet luncheon someplace she would be socially constrained from yelling at me.”

Hermione gave him an amused, if somewhat condescending, smile. “Draco. Your aunt Andromeda was raised by the same woman who raised your mother and she was sorted into Slytherin. She doesn’t _yell_. She gets quieter.”

Draco swallowed. He knew the quiet menace of the Black women all too well. “Maybe we should go home,” he said. 

“Too late,” Hermione said as a boy, loosed from the grip of his grandmother’s hands, ran across the brown grass as fast as his chubby legs would go and lunged at Hermione. She scooped him up with a laugh and handed him to Draco. “Teddy,” she said, “Meet your cousin, Draco.”

Draco got the look of terrified responsibility people unused to children get when one is placed in their arms. ‘Don’t let me drop this’ his eyes begged, as well as, ‘what if it doesn’t like me?’ and ‘is it potty-trained yet?’

“Hi,” he said to the boy, who giggled and grabbed a handful of Draco’s hair and tugged on it.

“Hermione,” Draco asked, “how does he have the white Malfoy hair?”

“He doesn’t,” said an older woman who’d glided across the dead lawn far more gracefully than the barely-not-a-toddler in her care. “He has brown hair.”

Draco looked at the platinum blond hair on the little boy in his grip and said, “Uhhh….”

“He’s a metamorphmagus,” Hermione said, rescuing him from his obvious confusion. “It mostly comes out in the hair now but he’ll change his skin tones and eye colour too sometimes.”

“Wow,” Draco said, not sure how to respond and unwillingly impressed at the unusual and valued talent. “Just… that’s really rare.”

“His mother, your cousin, was one,” the woman said. “I’m Andromeda Tonks. You must be Draco Malfoy; there’s no mistaking you, certainly, as you’re the mirror image of your father.”

Draco flinched. “So I’m told,” he said.

“Tricky things, mirrors,” the woman said. “They seem to show exact duplicates but, really, everything is reversed.”

“I would like to be his opposite,” Draco muttered.

Andromeda Tonks smiled, a bit of a wry expression that spoke of broken dreams and a life that hadn’t turned out the way she’d hoped. “That would be good,” was all she said. Teddy began to squirm and Draco set him down and the boy ran off in pursuit of whatever had caught his eye, his blond hair white in the sun. “He likes you,” she observed. At Draco’s quizzical look she explained, “He’s keeping the hair instead of shifting to the newest thing.”

“Oh,” Draco said. Hermione touched his arm and let him know she was going to go see if Molly wanted anything, a transparent excuse to leave him alone with his aunt as Hermione was not the first person anyone thought of when they sought out kitchen helpers.

“She loves you,” Andromeda observed as she watched Hermione walk away.

Draco put his pureblood mask on, shutters slipping into place over his eyes and his posture subtly shifting to that of arrogant disdain. He looked more like Lucius than ever with just that slight change of body language and any trace of his earlier discomfort at meeting his aunt and cousin was hidden. 

“You get my sister’s expression when you do that,” Andromeda said, unimpressed. “Like you can’t quite believe you’re being asked to mingle with people whose personal hygiene is inadequate.” She studied Draco for a moment and then added, “I did it too, for years. People would say something about Ted and I’d become all Black. He never understood why.” Her eyes looked into the past. “She probably won’t either.”

“Hermione doesn’t need defending from anyone,” Draco said.

“No?” Andromeda shook herself back to the flag-filled garden at the Weasleys’. “That’s why you wore some hideous, showy ring for a while? One that seems to have been replaced by something far more discrete?”

“She didn’t need to explain herself to people,” Draco said. “It was simply easier to take steps to ensure no one asked her to.”

“Oh yes,” Andromeda nodded, “so much simpler to let people think you’d contracted an engagement that, if it had suddenly disappeared, would have left you as a laughing stock. You’d have been the butt of jokes for years. Couldn’t even keep the interest of a woman raised by Muggles. So unfortunate. Simpler to risk that that then let the woman tell a few hidebound – “

“It was more than a few,” Draco said. His tone was short. “She was a veritable commodity.”

“So you protected her.” It wasn’t a question and Draco’s Malfoy arrogance sagged for just a moment. Most people wouldn’t have seen the minuscule change but Andromeda had been raised by Druella Black and he might as well have shouted his feelings from the rooftops. “You are quite a bit different than your father.” She paused and added slyly, “Though I’m sure he was quite pleased to hear you’re marrying within the august ranks of the elite.”

Draco snorted at that. “He would have been more pleased if she hadn’t informed him she was planning on having his cell stripped of whatever contraband he’s managed to accumulate. I don’t believe he thought she had quite the right pureblood attitude.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Andromeda was clearly amused by the idea of an unhappy Lucius Malfoy. “I think my mother would have approved of the tactic of making your enemies uncomfortable for spite.” She laughed, the sound sudden and bitter. “It’s what she did to family, after all.”

“It’s what we all do,” Draco said, turning away from her to watch the Weasley clan set out food on outdoor tables. Molly had herded her children into doing her bidding and even Blaise had a platter loaded with jars of condiments. Draco spared a moment to wonder if the man had brought his own mustard selections as some kind of hostess gift designed to spare him from whatever inadequate offerings his fiancé’s mother would have had on hand. It was a common enough trick with wine and he wouldn’t put it past Blaise to do it with mustard.

“Except those of us who risk ridicule to protect someone from minor hassles,” Andromeda said. 

Draco’s voice was neutral as he turned back to smile at his aunt. “Then I guess it’s good for me that it worked out.”

“Draco Malfoy,” she said holding her hand out, “it is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

He kissed the back of her hand and bowed slightly. “Andromeda Tonks, I am honored to be admitted into your circle.”

. . . . . . . . . .

“Traditional?” Molly Weasley looked at Luna Nott with mostly concealed horror. “You mean _traditional_ traditional?”

Luna stood barefoot on the wooden porch with a glass of lemonade in her hand. She’d added several grass clippings to the glass and they floated on the ice daring people to ask why they where there. She smiled and took a sip. “I’m pretty old fashioned,” she said. “Conservative.”

Theo almost choked on the starter he’d just put into his mouth. He hadn’t parted from Luna’s side since they arrived and their obvious devotion to one another both charmed and startled everyone who saw them. The member of the Sacred 28, the last bastion of social prestige and elitism, and this peculiar girl seemed an odd match to most people.

“To be married with no barriers between yourself and your beloved ensures a lifetime of honesty,” Luna continued. “Sympathetic magic.”

Molly Weasley almost glared at Ginny. “This will not be happening at your wedding,” she said. “Dress robes and guests!”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione tucked her hand into Harry’s as they watched most of the rest of the young adults fly brooms at breakneck speeds above the Weasleys’ property. “You happy?” he asked her. He’d sat out of this round of play to get a chance to talk to her alone.

She nodded. “Thanks for getting him back into Quidditch.”

Harry shrugged. “It’s nothing,” he said though they both knew it wasn’t. “He plays fair, which is more than I can say for George.”

“_Draco_ plays fair?” Hermione asked.

“He make Percy look footloose and fancy free,” Harry said. “It’s like he wants to make sure everyone knows he’s following the rules. All the rules.” He glanced at her. “Don’t worry. We’ll knock that out of him eventually.”

At that she laughed. “You and Pansy okay?” she asked.

Harry grinned. “How much detail do you want?” he asked.

“Oh Merlin,” she said, throwing her hands over her ears with exaggerated drama. “None.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Ginny pressed Blaise up against the back wall of the shed, her skirt hiked up and he realized with a combination of eagerness and horror that she wasn’t wearing knickers. “Ginny,” he groaned. “Your family is right over there. They’re all here. They’re eating cake and toasting Hermione and Draco.”

“I know,” she said. “They’re distracted.” He couldn’t see her grin in the darkness but he could certainly hear it. “How fast can you be, Blaise Zabini?”

He slipped his hands under her arse and pulled her against him. “Pretty fast,” he growled in her ear. “Minx.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Hermione signed her name and handed the grimy bit of parchment back to the indifferent Ministry employee. Everything in this office had the dreary feel of institutional utilitarianism and Hermione spared a moment to wonder how the Wizarding world had managed to get hold of what were clearly battered, Muggle, metal desks and mismatched filing cabinets. They all had the dull feel of items no one could quite justify throwing away because they still have many years of use left in them but that no one really wanted either. 

It made the faded picture of a happy couple framed on the wall behind them even more incongruous and hilarious.

“You understand that this document is legally binding,” the woman said, a litany she must repeat multiple times each week to whatever wizarding couples made their way to this department. Hermione took a moment to picture them: girls probably in white dresses clutching bouquets; boys gulping nervously as they did the right thing. She supposed she and Draco seemed out of place. He stood, every inch of him a study in patrician disdain. From the shoes he had on, which probably cost more than this poor government employee made in a month, to the bespoke shirt, he was wealth. She hadn’t bothered to put on any kind of wedding gown but had on sensible, flat shoes and a pair of trousers that were good for travel. They hoped to get settled into their hotel in Assisi that afternoon and start exploring the local churches. Hermione had made up a list of every Muggle church within a 50-mile radius of their hotel and planned to drag Draco to all of them. 

No, they didn’t look at all like the usual couple that got married in this government office. 

“Yes,” Draco said in answer to the woman’s question. “We’re quite aware of the binding nature of marriage contracts.”

The clerk gave him a look filled with sullen resentment. Hermione had rarely seen Draco outside his own sphere since Theo had begged her to be pleasant to the man and she had forgotten how effortlessly arrogant he was, how he grated on people simply by existing. 

“Alrightty, then,” the woman said. “I need you to both verbally confirm that you are entering into this contract of your own free will, that no threats or coercion have been used to bring you to this point, and that you are fully cognizant of the indissolubility of your lifelong marital bonding.” She glanced up at them when they didn’t respond. “This is where you say ‘I do’.”

“I do,” Hermione said, taking Draco’s hand in hers. 

“I do,” he replied, the words clipped and devoid of any obvious sentiment though he squeezed her fingers. 

“Then you’re married,” the woman said, turning to file their paperwork. “Have a nice life.”

“Thank you,” Hermione said. “We will.”

They were halfway down the hall when Draco asked, “Do you think she knows she mispronounced cognizant?”

“Probably not,” Hermione said.

“I love you,” he said.

She stopped in the hall and turned to him and, in full view of several Ministry employees, kissed him. “We get to do this in public now, right?” she whispered in his ear.

He laughed and, picking her up, swung her around and said, “Like you’d let a silly thing like pureblood customs stop you.”

Then he returned her kiss with interest.

**~ and they all lived ~**

** ~ happily ever ~**

**~ after ~**


End file.
